Honeysuckle Rose: A Time Travel Romance During WW2.

Jumped on the Douglass train almost immediately that I've been bugging my friends about him 🧘‍♂️

I fear that the only thing keeping me going this summer is the hbo war tag on tumblr and my obsessive need for strawberries

Idk if anyone even posts edits on tumblr but my ass is gonna bc I have too many made that I haven't posted on tiktok yet bc it's the only fun thing I do 🤷‍♂️

Honeysuckle Rose • Part 2

part one part three

masterlist

olive's playlist

taglist: @sagesolsticewrites @ginabaker1666 @archival-hogwash

Wheeling her two large suitcases down the winding country road, her nose twitches. The all too familiar smell that she'd long forgotten of the nearby cow farm attacked her nostrils with such vigor that it took everything in her to not gag. Nostrils accosted for the first time in years by that godawful smell, Olive gained some composure as she pulled open the still creaky gate of her grandmother's cottage.

The gate, taken by the rough breeze of the countryside, clicked back into place suddenly, causing Olive to jump. Even before she has made the ascent up the garden path to reach the front door, Joan has started to make her way down to greet her.

Joan, the lady that had been helping Grandma Pearl since her first fall eighteen months ago, was a tall, stocky woman that took no shit from anybody, especially not Pearl. No matter how many times Grandma was rude, cranky, and downright mean, Joan stuck by her because she just loved taking care of her so much. She looks different than Olive remembers, her round, apple like cheeks having lost their usual blush, but instead, look gray and sunken in. She's lost her plushness, and she stands in an all black outfit, a total change from her usual bold outfit choices of tie dye, purple denim and, what Grandma liked to call “circus attire.”

“Joan!” Olive greets brightly, opening her arms for an awkward hug. Joan hugs back so tight that it draws the breath from Olive's lungs, and she finds herself gasping for air, patting her shoulder as a sign to let go. “Jesus, Joan,” she murmurs under her breath.

“I'm so sorry to hear about Alfred,” Olive says, voice back up to normal volume. “He was such a kind man.”

“Thank you, dear,” she replies, her eyes glistening with tears. “I miss him terribly…” her voice trails off, wistfully and she comes back to the conversation a few seconds later. “I'm so happy you're here. I really am grateful for you coming at such short notice like this.”

“Oh, of course!” Olive says, shrugging as if it was nothing.

“I just need time to get everything in check,” she sniffs, leading you into the house. “Who'd have thought that planning a funeral would be so stressful?”

Olive titters, trying to lighten the mood somewhat. “Right?” She pauses, a moment of silence between them. “Well, I'm here to help now. Not just Pearl, but you, too.”

Following Joan into the living room, Olive sees Pearl sat in her favorite armchair, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

“Grandma?” she calls, hoping she'll tear her eyes away from whichever midday soap opera has caught her fancy.

“Oh, hello, you,” she replies, eyes instantly softening. “Big city girl. Come here!” Her big, gentle arms outstretched, Olive walks over to her and kneels down to where she sits to be enveloped in her arms. “Hi, Pearly Girly,” she mumbles into her, suddenly glad to be home. “How goes it?”

“Oh, you know,” she shrugs, blanket falling off as she does so. “Not too bad if you forget the fact that I'm old as dirt and can't go to the bingo alone.”

“It'll much more fun with me,” Olive says, her tone lowered so Joan doesn't hear her from the kitchen where she's busy making tea. “I'll let you have a tipple. Guinness and blackcurrant. Maybe even two if you let me sleep in on Sundays.” Pearl laughs, her blue eyes lighting up.

“Deal.”

Joan brings in the tea tray, her hands shaking slightly as she begins to set it down on the small table in the middle of the room.

“Let me get that,” Olive stands, holding her hands out to grab the tray before Joan's shaking causes everything to fall off it onto the light carpet. Placing it on to the table, she begins to pour Grandma a cup of tea, just the way she likes it. Milk and sugar in first, then the tea and stirred clockwise eight times.

“You remembered!” Joan says, her mood lightening slightly.

“Of course,” Olive responds, getting to stirring. “It's been drilled into me since I was out of the womb.”

A warm, cozy feeling envelopes Olive as she sits on Grandma’s faded pink sofa, sipping on her tea. Joan silently hands her a sheet of paper, looking at her expectantly.

“Found this for you,” she says, her eyes now downcast. “When you're ready, give them a call.”

Wanted: actresses of every experience to play Land Girls at Thorpe Abbotts.

Thorpe Abbotts, famous for hosting the 100th Bomb Group during World War II is seeking girls 18+ for reenactment roles as we begin school tours for the summer months. Call XXX-XX-XXX to arrange a meeting.

“Wow,” Olive stutters out, slightly impressed. “Didn't know they did stuff like this.”

“Not usually,” Joan replies. “But it's for the schoolkids. It's good money, good hours, too. Lines up for when Pearl has her home help and I'm not here. Go on, put your skills to good use.”

“You know what,” Olive says, placing her teacup upon the tray. “I think I might.”

—

A moody woman with a pinched face looks Olive up and down. Despite her glares, this happens to be the easiest audition Olive has ever had.

“You can start tomorrow. Be here at eight in the morning. Do you have dungarees?” Olive nods, a fake smile plastered on her face. “Good,” the stone faced lady carries on. “Feel free to walk around and get familiar with the place while it's quiet.”

Practically tiptoeing on the wooden floor, Olive finds herself suddenly curious about the place she'd had no intent to visit until now. The museum, a smaller one than the ones in London she'd visited during her time there, had a comforting stillness to it. She stops at certain exhibits, her eyes becoming glassy when she sees a picture of two men, facing each other and gazing into one another's eyes with such admiration that it almost knocks the air from her. “The Two Bucks,” she reads aloud, staring into the window. A few steps later, she is learning all about a heroic man named Robert Rosenthal. His information card tells her that his men called him Rosie, and he flew fifty-two missions during the war, the odds stacked against him at every turn. She also reads about the animals the airmen kept during their time at Thorpe Abbotts, including a sweet dog named Meatball.

Making her way outside, Olive spots the control tower in the distance, squinting up at the blurry windows that shelter it. She swears she almost can make out the shapes of airmen busy at work in there, shaking her head to rid her eyes of the tricks they play. Next to the control tower stands a large aircraft, the letter D painted on it in black. “Just-A-Snappin',” she reads aloud, walking up to it. Placing a hand on its wing and peering into it, a sudden sound stops her in her tracks. The sound of a large dog barking distracts Olive from her investigation of the plane, making her jump suddenly. She looks around and sees no sign of a dog, nor does she see from where the sound came. With a shrug, she begins making her way back through the courtyard of the museum and starts the short walk home to Pearl’s.

—

The day begins earlier than Olive is used to, struggling to leave her cozy bed at what feels like the crack of dawn. Sleepily taking a look at the time on her phone, she rubs her eyes to try to wake herself up a little more. The time reads 7am, leaving Olive just enough time to get ready for her first day at Thorpe Abbotts after getting Grandma out of bed and ready for the day. Despite Pearl’s protestations, Olive wants to ensure that the home helper has minimal work to do when she arrives.

“That's what the bloody helper is for,” she berates as she washes her face with a warm cloth. “Let them do their job, Ollie Pop.”

“Well, it's also why I'm here. I'm here to help, too. I've got time and you, young lady, need a wash.”

“Fine!” she relents, brow furrowed. Taking her granddaughter's hand, she looks at her, her eyes going soft. She takes in her appearance: dungarees with a checkered shirt underneath, a head scarf tied at the top of her head, boots and a small tote bag. “You look just like me, girlie. Just like I did during the war.”

“You were a land girl?”

“I was. It was the best time of my life. I made so many dear friends - and the men! Jesus, you've never seen a finer bunch of fellas. All American, all well built. All so handsome I couldn't help but swoon. One of two of them were very keen on me,” she says wistfully.

“Grandma!” Olive scolds, giggling as she pulls a lightweight shirt over Pearl’s head. Her eyes narrow towards her Grandma. “Not like I blame you. I'd have done the same.” Grandma breaks into a peal of laughter, her eyes beginning to shine again, just like they did before she took her first fall all those months ago.

—

Olive arrives at the museum, five minutes before the scheduled time.

“Hi,” she greets another girl meekly. “I'm Olive. Where am I meant to go?”

“Oh, hi, Olive!” she replies, giving her a big toothy grin. “You'll be with me. We're just walking over to the field right there. You look great!”

“Thanks,” she responds, tucking a strand of hair back into the scarf on her head. The era Olive had with being obsessed with wartime fashion and hair had finally come in handy, she thinks to herself, placing her bag into a small cubby that had been shown to her by the girl.

“I didn't get your name?” Olive says.

“Heather Crouch,” she replies. “You know what, I'm sure we went to school together.”

Olive squints a little, trying to make out the girl in front of her with younger features. “My goodness!” Olive says, finally recognizing her. “We had English literature together, in sixth form.”

“That's it!” she winks at Olive, holding the door open for her. “Come on, let's get started.”

Heather leads Olive and four others over to a field that's covered with straw, a few bean bag chairs hidden off to the side and a little shed of rakes and shovels.

“It's nothing strenuous,” Heather explains. “Just sort of poke at it all and make it look like you're doing something. The kiddos seem to lap it up.” Right on cue, a bunch of small school children begin their rounds of the outside of the museum which includes Olive's group, a tour of the B-17 she'd looked at yesterday and the control tower. Their eyes bright and keen, ready to learn, Olive listens intently as Heather explains what a land girl did and their contributions to the war effort. It isn't just the children that are learning today.

—

A few hours later, it's lunchtime. Olive takes her bag over to the only place that's shaded: underneath Just A-Snappin, the wings and body of the aircraft sheltering her from the warm sun. Biting into a sandwich bought from the museum's small kiosk, she breathes in the fresh country air, finally finding some comfort in her decision to come home. Despite all of its shortcomings, it was worth it to feel some semblance of peace for the first time in years.

Her wistfulness is once again interrupted by a familiar sound - the sound of a dog barking. She looks all around her, turning her head back and forth to find where the noise is coming from, but sees nothing. Looking over towards the field where she'd been working, she expects to see a large dog bounding on the yellowing grass, but it doesn't happen. Another bark startles her, it seeming to come from the aircraft door above her head.

Opening the door - emblazoned with the words “JERRY, IF YOU CAN READ THIS, START PRAYIN’” - the bark seems to echo through the plane, making her brow furrow. Looking all around to find the other reenactment people distracted by their own lunchtime conversations, Olive takes a deep breath and clambers into the aircraft as gracefully as possible, closing the door with a slam.

It's quickly sweltering hot in there, the heat almost making her choke. Shaking her head at her stupidity - “why on earth did I think I heard a dog barking in here?” she says aloud, metaphorically beating herself up - she opens the door again to let some cool air in. She's taken aback by the noise of a crowd of men, all deep in banter and conversation. Leaning out of the plane to get a better look, she clumsily falls out like a newborn baby giraffe, right at the feet of a handsome man, holding the leash of a husky.

“Wow,” the man begins, trying to hold in his laughter. “Never had a girl fall that hard and fast for me before.” Olive chuckles, slightly winded from the fall and also breathless from how wonderfully gorgeous the man is. He stands just shorter than her, his dark hair expertly gelled into place, his skin slightly tanned. “What were you doing in there?”

“I–uh…I was, uhm,” he nods at her to carry on. “I thought I heard the dog in there,” she shrugs, the words spilling out so fast that he has to pause to make sense of what you said.

“Right…” He replies, his eyes narrowing. “Well, you'd better get out the way,” he smiles, nodding over to the side at a group of men joining him.

“Oh, yeah,” Olive stutters nervously, moving out of the way quickly and almost wracking her head on the open door.

“Hey, careful,” the man says, shaking his head at Olive again. He pauses for a moment. “What's your name?”

“Olive,” she replies, voice slightly raised over the loud hum of airplanes. “You?”

“Demarco. Benny. And this here is Meatball.”

I kept giggling while making this I love his voice sm

Who wouldn't want to edit him to a religious song?

Icl his s1 and s2 eras were just soooooo good

Gulp! No fr though I doubt anyone will see this, but I finally got back into traditional art after having the WORST phase of not drawing. Take this piece of a sketch I did of Harry Crosby from the MOTA show?

Update: I'm gonna be breaking hearts with this oh it is so awful I'm gonna throw up

Putting all the nice fun silly edits on hold because I'm making something evil today

And Joe Mazzello's youtube 😞💔

I fear that the only thing keeping me going this summer is the hbo war tag on tumblr and my obsessive need for strawberries