We Must Be Brave

by Frances Liardet

  There was a moon in the sky, a ghostly white sliver against the dulling blue.

  ‘I’m so lonely,’ she said. ‘No one at school thinks like me. They’re a pack of sneering wolves. Instead of howling at the moon they sneer at me. And Daddy’s so far away. And Mummy doesn’t love me at all.’

  ‘I’m quite sure she does.’

  ‘She’s bored with me and doesn’t care any more. She said so.’

  ‘Listen,’ I told her. ‘Your mother isn’t well. Her words come out wrong. She loves you, but she simply can’t show her love.’

  ‘I don’t see what love is, then.’ She sniffed. ‘If you can’t show it. I wish Daddy was here.’ She began to cry. ‘And then you told me I had to stay at school. I thought I wouldn’t see you again.’

  I kneeled in the wet grass and folded my arms around her. ‘My darling. I thought it was for the best, but I was wrong. I will look after you. I promise you.’

  She sat by the fire while I heated a casserole for supper. On the floor with her knees up, her arms folded on top of them, her chin on her arms. Her socks were half-pulled off her feet, the toes empty. As I watched she put out a hand to trace the dimples in the coal scuttle with her fingertip. ‘It’s a bullfrog,’ she said. ‘A red-gold gaping bullfrog.’ The flames crackled and spat in the grate. ‘Look at those gleams, Ellen. Isn’t he beautiful?’

  ‘Would you like peas or cabbage with your stew, darling?’

  ‘Neither, please.’

  The impudence of the child. I shook my head in exasperated love.

  ‘What about pudding? Stewed apple, or egg custard?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘I think you know what I’m going to say next.’

  A long, long silence.

  ‘Peas, please.’

  ‘That’s better. Now, do you know how to play rummy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s have a game. Then supper.’

  We sat cross-legged in front of the fire. She was lively even when sitting. Blowing her cheeks out like a goldfish when her cards were bad, chuckling when they pleased her.

  Later she had a bath and went to bed in the old dressing room. I turned on my bedside light and extinguished hers so that the darkness was not absolute. As before, I didn’t want her to wake and be alarmed.

  ‘Goodnight, sweetheart.’

  She was already asleep. Lying on her side with her lips parted as if blowing or making the sound ‘O’.

  When she was younger I would stroke the hair back while her eyes were still shut, and the net of hair would have left an impression on the dense fine grain of her skin. And she would breathe in through her nose, a stertorous sniff, fling out a fist, an arm, and her eyelids would part to show a sliver of white, but she was still claimed by sleep. Sometimes I had to do as Mrs Berrow had done, when I needed to wake her: stand her on her feet and blow into her face, blow so her eyelashes were ruffled by my breath, and she fell forward, sack-like, into my arms. It almost swayed me off my feet, the desire to kneel by the bed and gather her to me and kiss her sleeping face.

  *

  I woke to a shaft of light falling on the bed from a chink in the curtains. I was on one side of the light, lying with my eyes barely open, and she was on the other, kneeling on the floor in her pyjamas at the edge of the bed. She seemed far away from me in a dim colourless world, her face as grave as a stone angel, utterly precious. Was it any wonder that I had grieved? Look at what I had lost, and I had lost her. She had been taken from me as abruptly as if by death. Was it any wonder that I was in bliss?

  She sighed, and tiny motes in the light spun and scurried.

  ‘What is it, darling?’

  ‘My Patience. It’s not coming out.’

  I propped my head on my hand and considered the columns of playing cards laid out in front of her on the counterpane. ‘That black six, dear. Put it on your red seven.’

  ‘Ooh!’ Her fingers flew over the cards. ‘Look, now it’s coming. Nearly there!’ More fluttering of cards, and then she clapped her hands. ‘Ta-daa! I’ve done it!’

  ‘Didn’t I help you, at all?’

  ‘You might have speeded it up,’ she said airily.

  I burst out laughing. ‘You’re incorrigible. Draw the curtains please.’

  She did what I said. The angel was banished to another world. She kneeled on the deep windowsill. ‘I can’t see a single cloud. The spiders have been busy. The hedge is covered in webs. Look how rich we are, Ellen.’

  ‘Rich?’

  ‘All those diamonds.’

  I yawned and sat up. ‘We’d better not try and put them in our pockets.’

  ‘I read a story about a woman who cried diamonds that turned back into tears after a year and a day.’ She wriggled round on the windowsill, the better to tell me. ‘But this lady had a heart of stone and the saddest stories had no effect on her whatsoever. In the end a young knight came and told her a hilarious joke instead, and she got completely beside herself guffawing and the diamonds came popping out of her eyes. So he put them in a bag and used them to pay a cruel king so he could marry the king’s daughter and take her away.’ She lifted an emphatic finger. ‘Obviously, the cruel king didn’t know what kind of diamonds they were.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  Her hair was haloed by the sun, and I could hardly see her face.

  ‘And so the knight and the princess galloped off on a horse, and by the time the diamonds melted they were far, far away. Isn’t that brilliant?’

  ‘Yes, it is. It’s a terrific story.’ I got out of bed. ‘Now, I thought we’d pop into Waltham and get some supplies. I didn’t go before, because I didn’t know what you’d like. You don’t have to come, of course.’

  She shook her head. ‘Can I stay here? It’s so lovely and cosy. I want to do another Patience and finish Prince Caspian. Please can you get some Frosties and Cup-a-Soups? And a Curly Wurly?’

  ‘Anything,’ I said, ‘as long as I don’t have to eat it.’

  She stood in the hen run in her wellingtons, casting grain in wide sweeps like before, as if sowing a field. I watched her, holding my shopping bag and list.

  ‘That’s the way,’ I said. ‘And they can have these peelings too.’

  ‘You know when I prayed that I could stay here?’ She spoke matter-of-factly, her eyes on the hens as they stalked and grumbled. ‘When I was kneeling on that chair in the hall? Well, I wasn’t the least bit joking. I could stay here for ever. I’d feed the hens. I could do the washing, too. I’m good at washing socks and things. And isn’t there another school in the village? I could go to that one instead of bloody Upton Hall. And Mummy could lie on the sofa all she wanted, and Daddy could come and visit me from Ireland.’

  I looked out to the east, to the smaller hills and the valley. A tractor ploughed a distant field, a flock of seagulls in its wake. Somewhere a church bell rang, and the whole flock rose into the air. I felt as light as the gulls, as if my feet too were lifting off the ground.

  ‘Ellen?’ I heard her say. ‘Isn’t that a terrific plan?’

  Yes. The bell sounded through the crystal air. Yes. The gulls pealed as they settled once more on the plough. ‘Yes.’ An easy little word. I whispered it. Any louder and I might break the hope that nestled inside an eggshell so thin it was almost transparent in this strong light.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ I said. ‘I’ll go shopping and come back. Straight back. I won’t stay away a minute longer than I have to. I’ll see you very soon.’

  I kissed the top of her head and left.

  The town was beautiful today in this clear light, every brick clean and shining in the low sun. The air itself was brimming with something that I tried to call joy, but joy was a pale paltry little word for this sustained bright silent force. I went into the supermarket, busied myself among the aisles, locating the desired foods. I caught sight of myself in the plate glass of a cabinet containing frozen fish. A tall, presentable person in her fifties. Perhaps rather severe. I put my hands to my b
un. I’d worn my hair in the same style since I was eighteen. Selwyn had liked it, the way it tumbled down when I unclipped it. But maybe it was time for a change.

  ‘Good morning, Ellen.’

  Behind me in the reflection stood the Reverend James Acton, smiling, holding a wire basket.

  I whirled round. ‘Good morning!’ I felt the blush rising. ‘I was just thinking about my hair …’

  How foolish I sounded. Not that I minded my own foolishness today. It was nothing compared to what was inside me.

  ‘You’re permitted.’ The smile grew wider. ‘I was thinking only about supper. I was after some fish.’

  ‘And I’m standing in your way.’ I shifted smartly. ‘I’m getting a few things for a young girl I’m looking after.’ I glanced down at my own basket. ‘She likes things in packets.’

  ‘So do I. My son gives me frequent tellings-off.’

  ‘You have a son!’

  What an imbecile I was. I could have laughed out loud.

  He nodded, unperturbed. ‘He’s studying Environmental Sciences at the University of East Anglia. He’s against packets, on the whole. He’s staying with me just now, so I’m going to feed him a large piece of haddock.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d join me one evening next week for a glass of sherry. Tuesday, say? Parishioners permitting.’

  My smile could not be quashed. ‘That would be lovely.’ I rummaged in my bag for paper and pen. ‘I haven’t got your phone number …’

  ‘Ask Althea.’

  ‘Do you know, I’d rather not. Sometimes I’m glad that my friends are so attentive and caring. But not all the time!’

  He gave me his telephone number and I folded the piece of paper into my purse. We paid for our goods and left the shop together, stepping out into Waltham Square. The sky was the most extraordinary blue. I’d never seen anything like it. I expected a portent of some kind, a comet so bright it could be seen in daylight. The nearest thing to a comet was the weathercock. Motionless today in the still, mild air, its tail caught a sunbeam and slung it down to me, a flare of rosy gold that closed my eyes.

  I heard him say, ‘So who is the youngster you’re looking after?’

  The cobbles in the square pressed against my shoes. The plastic shopping bag pinched my fingers. I felt uncommonly solid. Surrounded by another solidity, the town of Waltham, whose every brick and stone I knew.

  ‘Ellen? You said you had a child at home.’

  I opened my eyes. The cobbles of the square lay shining; the buildings high and beautiful in the bold, searching, morning light.

  ‘I love this town,’ I said. ‘It’s been everything to me, you know. It saved me from despair. Gave me a job. Taught me how to be happy. Brought me my husband.’ I glanced up again at the flash on the town hall’s pitched roof. ‘William Kennet made that weathercock. Has anyone told you?’

  ‘I only knew that he was a gardener at Upton Hall.’

  ‘Before that he beat copper. As a very young man. But the Great War put paid to that. He lost so much. Many of us here have lost so much. I think you should know that, James. Now that you’ve come among us, to be our shepherd.’

  He nodded. ‘I do know it. Ellen …’ He came a little closer. ‘Would you like to sit down for a moment? The bus shelter’s just over there.’

  ‘Why would I want to sit down?’ I laughed. ‘I’m not the least bit tired. Actually, I haven’t felt so full of vim for a long time.’

  He fingered his chin, gave me his lidless, intelligent stare. ‘Yes,’ he said gently. ‘You do seem … uncommonly full of vim.’

  We both laughed at the old-fashioned word.

  ‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘I need to get back.’

  ‘And I … I think I need to make a couple of phone calls. Take care of yourself, Ellen. I hope I’ll see you on Tuesday.’

  I watched him hurry away, vanish into the shadow of the side street. Then I began to walk back across the square. As I did so my happiness caused my soul to rise high in the air, level with the weathercock, its burnished plumage and its proud, fierce eye. Far below a young girl trudged over the cobbles to the Infirmary, her head bowed, the burden too great. Then the girl ran across the cobbles to the town hall, careful not to make creases in the toes of her shoes. And she stepped off the pavement, her dress flying in the warm breeze, and bumped into a man and dropped her books, and they embraced on the stones, and they married on the steps. Two small figures in the sunshine. Two small figures, and then a child, tagging along, skipping ahead.

  I drove home through the glorious crisp air. The day was as perfect as a pearl in a shell.

  *

  I knew the house was empty before I even called ‘Hello’. Something about the stillness and shadow in the hall told me so. I hurried into the kitchen, put our shopping down on the table, went out of the back door to find the hens shut up securely, the last grains scattered in the mud, and her wellingtons leaning against each other by the back step. I came back inside, strode through the empty sitting room where the husks of burnt logs lay cold in the grate, and ran upstairs.

  There were no clothes on the floor, no rumpled sheets. The coverlet was tucked tight on the narrow bed in the dressing room and her suitcase had disappeared.

  The only sound the ticking of Selwyn’s little clock.

  I went back into the big bedroom. The playing cards were still on the counterpane, some scattered on the floor. A few had been pushed under the bed. I bent to pick them up and came upon a crumpled torn scrap of paper. I scanned the typewritten words.

  Pamela, there’s been a flood. Did it wash you back

  my darling

  looked again it was only Penny

  I ran downstairs and out into the lane. There was no sign of her. I turned back to the house and looked in the garage. The bicycle was nowhere to be seen.

  Althea answered her telephone at the fifth ring. ‘Althea, it’s Ellen—’

  ‘Dear girl. James Acton has rung. We were wondering if you’re quite—’

  ‘Never mind about all that. Pamela’s gone. She’s disappeared.’

  A second or two of silence.

  ‘Ellen, I’m going to ring up Margaret Dennis—’

  ‘Yes, you should do that. Get William too. I’m going out to search for her. She took the bike, you see.’

  30

  SHEETS OF WATER stood at the bottom of the farm track, reflecting the sky. Beacon Hill rose up above me, a quiet line marred by humans, their dips and hollows mined out before the coming of Christ. Huddled in the heights with their dewponds and defences. The ramparts worn down now by the wind, by sheep.

  The bicycle lay at the foot of the track. Flung down insolently. I half-expected to see a wheel still spinning.

  The track was white, the fields a light white-speckled brown. The chalk skimmed just under the turf here. It was nibbling ground, not planting, but ever since the war the farmers had ploughed all up the slopes, the furrows a regular weave swerving over the shoulder of the hill and on again. Thin soil and dry, the hedges at the field boundary stunted and made sparse by the soil and the wind.

  ‘Ellen. Ellen.’

  The voice came from behind me. I turned to see him halfway up the track, further away than I had imagined. The wind must have carried his voice. He laboured on, a dogged old man. Even now, coming for me. Who told him? Althea? James? It had to be James. He wouldn’t have reached the hill yet, if it had been Althea.

  Always, all these people. Selwyn, Aubrey, Althea, William. William, as the blur resolved into barbed wire and we fell and skidded over the road. I should have fought him off, grabbed Pamela, run, in spite of my ankle, into the field. With the bicycle. And then onward, down the hill to the sea.

  ‘Ellen. Stop.’

  Here he was now, his eyes in shadow under the brim of his hat, his mouth a line. He wasn’t panting, even at that pace. I turned away but he took hold of my hand, clasped it in his, a firm crab-like pincer.

  The anger un
coiled inside me. ‘Let go of me.’

  He did not. With my free hand I buffeted him on his chest, on the lapel of his ancient tweed jacket, my fist rounded. I shook my head, shook the hair out of my eyes. ‘You could have helped me push the bike through the field. Torn your shirt up, to bandage my ankle – do you remember, I twisted it?’ I pummelled him again. ‘A true friend would have done that. Sent us on our way, God speed. But you caught us instead, and took us back, and here you are again! And I’m losing her – losing her –’

  I gave him another blow, and another. A yelp came from my throat. He trapped my hitting hand in his.

  ‘Come now, woman!’ He gave me a shaking, his voice a gentle roar. ‘Come to your senses!’

  I stood in front of him, weeping. My grief was packed deep like rock salt, the tears concentrated and stinging, hard to shed. I wrenched them out all the same with high, keening sobs. When I began to sway on my feet, his hands closed firmly round my upper arms. He continued to hold me in this way, though the crying took a long time.

  Finally, I fell silent, and he released me. ‘Put up your hair now, Ellen,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Skirling around like a banshee, and your hair all tumbling down. You’re a proper disgrace.’

  Stunned, I wordlessly obeyed, fumbling around my neck, the back of my head. My clip was gone. That brought me near to weeping again. ‘I can’t.’

  He tutted gently. ‘Make it neat, then.’

  I fashioned a rough plait and tucked it into the back of my coat collar, and walked away from him. I could not look at him.

  Below me the fields stretched out beneath the hill. I searched the land for cattle, dogs, people, but there was no one. Only a barren plain which would darken as the sun went down until it was lit only by a small light in the west, and then that too would be gone. Behind me William said my name, murmured, but I hardly heard him. I wanted only to walk away, far away. Yes. Later tonight I would take the seaward road on the other side of the hill, the same road that I’d taken with Pamela. And on I would go until I outstripped this pain, this desolation, left it behind in the fields and hills of Upton.