When she slipped behind the curtain back into the nave, the congregation was faced away towards the vicar at the pulpit. Only one person turned as she made her way to the door – the man in the wool suit. He caught her eye before she got there, and his glare felt like a burning cigarette pressed into her skin. The village will know now, she thought. And Arthur’s wife.
She considered telling him when he arrived at the bicycles a few minutes later, but he was looking so pleased and exhilarated that she kept quiet.
“What did you think of it?” he asked.
“I loved it. It was like nothing I’ve done before.”
“It is different, isn’t it? Everything else falls away.”
“That was clever of you to have me ring then, during Calling All Sinners.”
“Yes. Normally with beginners we have them along to a practice evening and let them torment the village for a few minutes with their mistakes. But I thought Sunday morning might suit you better. Easier to get here and back during the day.”
Yes, and so that you can keep me hidden from the other ringers and the congregation, she thought. But she was not angry. It was a pragmatic solution.
She did not add that she wanted to do it again, for she understood it would be difficult to arrange – perhaps impossible now that the man in the wool suit had seen her. This had been a lone ringing session.
Arthur picked up her bicycle and handed it to her. “We could go back to Winchester along the route we came on, through Stockbridge,” he said. “But there will be Sunday traffic, and it is not so pleasant. There is another route along smaller roads, through Broughton and King’s Somborne. It’s nicer.”
“I would like that,” she said. “But there’s no need for you to accompany me all the way back. And you would get to Winchester far too early for Evensong ringing. I’m sure I can find the route.” She was becoming more formal with him. “I expect you – you have other things you should be spending your Sunday doing.” A Sunday roast with your wife, she thought.
“I’m not ringing at Winchester this afternoon. But why don’t I cycle with you part of the way? It’s a bit tricky getting across the river and to King’s Somborne. Once you take the turning there it’s more or less straight.”
“Would you like me to cycle away first and you follow later?” Like a proper affair? she added to herself.
Arthur smiled. “No need – the village gossips are all inside.” He nodded at the church, where the singing had finished.
They rode south, parallel to Wallop Brook, on a road Violet had walked along in the opposite direction the previous summer. Though side by side, they were quiet now. The exuberance she had felt from ringing with him had dissipated, replaced by a growing sadness, like the feeling she got on the last day of a holiday, when she almost wanted it to be over already, to get back to dull, everyday life.
After Broughton they cycled on towards the River Test, which required a few twists and turns to cross. Then they passed over a railway line, and the John O’ Gaunt Inn came into sight. The publican was out front, watering tubs of pansies. “Hello, Arthur!” he called, then did a double take when he recognised Violet.
Arthur nodded, but did not stop. When they were out of earshot he swore softly.
“One gossip who is not at church,” Violet remarked.
“Indeed.”
“Would you rather turn around?”
“No, but I’ll take a different route back so I won’t have him stop me and ask about you.”
They soon reached a bigger road that led them to the village of King’s Somborne, a gathering of houses, a pub, and a church. Arthur turned then onto a smaller road, and very quickly the houses disappeared and hedgerows ran alongside the fields beyond. He pulled over and Violet came up beside him and stopped, sliding off the seat and standing with the bicycle still between her legs.
“If you continue along this road for about seven miles, it will lead you to the outskirts of Winchester,” Arthur explained. “There will be little traffic, and it’s lovely.”
“All right.” Violet didn’t move. “Thank you for this morning. And for all of the meals you’ve bought me. And for taking me up to see the Cathedral bells. For everything.” She knew her words were sounding final. Because they were. Something in his demeanour made it clear that this day was unique. It would never happen again. He had brought her to ring, and that was all. He gazed at her a little helplessly now, and that seemed to confirm it. He would say goodbye and cycle back to Nether Wallop.
Violet felt the abyss gaping inside her. She could tumble into it, or she could take charge of the moment. Her act of rebellion.
They were stopped by a metal gate in the hedgerow where a tractor could go through to plough and harvest. The road and the hedgerows and the fields around them were completely silent, waiting. Violet dismounted and rolled her bicycle to lean against the hedge. Then she began to climb the gate.
“Violet.”
She got to the top and swung a leg over so that she was sitting astride it, her skirt ballooning out around her. She took a deep breath before she spoke. “Would you come into this field with me? Because I am ready, and we will never have this chance again.”
Arthur stared at her.
“You can come or you can ride away.” Violet jumped down into the field and moved away from the gate without looking back. She had taken a risk; it was up to him to decide if he would too. She stepped into the field, left fallow with grass and clover, and the perfect height for lying on, as it was neither too high nor too short and prickly. As she waited she thought about all of the people who would not understand what she was doing: her mother, Tom and Evelyn, Louisa Pesel, even Gilda and Dorothy. She thought of them, and then set them aside. Only one person was left to reckon with. She closed her eyes and pictured Jean Knight the only time she had seen her, a striking figure with her hair loose and her face drinking in the sun. Forgive me, Violet thought. Forgive me for making my life from the ruins of yours.
After a moment she sensed Arthur standing next to her. She opened her eyes and turned to him so that they were facing each other as they had while ringing. Reaching out, she took his hand, and he took her other. It was like a circuit being completed so that electricity could race through and connect them, sparking strongest at the base of her stomach.
She asked him to leave first. She wanted to be alone in the field, to gather herself together before she carried on with the rest of her life.
“I’m sorry, Violet,” Arthur said, scrambling to his feet. “I am no good at this.” He waved his hands about, taking in not just them and the field but all of the times they had met and the things they had said and what they had just done. “My wife—”
“I know.”
But he insisted on continuing. “Jean has had a time of it. She needs me.”
“Of course. But I think it best that we don’t meet any more, or have any contact. It’s better that way.” Violet’s mouth was trembling so much she had to bite her lips to get them under control. “Because it’s too hard otherwise, now that we’ve …”
“Yes. That’s best.” His simple agreement broke her heart, because she wanted him to say otherwise. But he was right, no matter the consequences of this day. They both understood that.
Arthur held her face for a moment, his eyes sad and blue, and smiled. He kissed her, then walked over to the gate and climbed it without looking back. Once he had rattled off on his bicycle, Violet mopped her face with his handkerchief, straightened her clothes, brushed the grass from her hair, calmed her breath. Then she stood, and looked across the field studded with buttercups, the handkerchief crumpled in her hand. Parts of her were still thrumming, alert to the possibility of change and growth.
She was tucking the handkerchief back into her handbag when she heard the gate clank, and wondered why Arthur was returning. She turned around. It was not Arthur. Jack Wells was standing on the bottom rung of the gate. He grasped the top rung, and with a quick hop swung his legs to
the side and vaulted it, landing gracefully.
He stood looking at her with his dark staring eyes and his slow smile, and time seemed to freeze. Violet was able to calculate that his farm with its rusting machinery and the cornfield he had followed her through were just a field or two to the south. She had been so full of Arthur and the bells that she had not thought of that summer day, or of New Year’s Eve. She had managed to remove him from her thoughts, until now.
No, she thought. You will not take this day away from me. “Go away,” she said before he could speak.
His smile grew wider. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Because I have asked you to, and a gentleman does what a lady asks.”
“Does he, now? I don’t know about that. I think a man can take what he likes.”
He stepped towards her. She took a step back. Now was a time to think quickly and clearly. Best not to panic, she heard her father in her ear. Think calmly about all of the options and quickly choose which seems best. Don’t overanalyse.
She listened. Arthur was gone; there were no houses nearby, and no farmers out working on a Sunday. No one could help her. Could she talk him out of it? Unlikely, judging from her previous encounters with him. Should she let him do what he wanted? That way he might be less violent.
No. She could not countenance it. After what had just happened with Arthur, she could not bear for him to wreck that memory. What had the past eighteen months in Winchester taught her? She would resist.
Violet glanced at the contents of her open handbag: Arthur’s handkerchief, her wallet, a lipstick, a compact, some receipts, and a long strip of canvas rolled up that she was embroidering for a cushion border. She had tucked it in so that she had something to do if she had to wait for Arthur. Accompanying it was the needle case Marjory had made for her birthday, with several embroidery needles – short, thick, with rounded ends – stuck through the felt pages. Now she considered the needles.
Jack Wells took another step towards her. “What are you doing here on your own?”
So he had not seen her and Arthur together, she thought with relief.
“I – I am looking at the flowers.”
“Why are you on your own so much?”
“That’s my business. What’s wrong with being alone?”
“A woman shouldn’t be. She needs a man to protect her. Otherwise anything can happen.”
“Nonsense,” Violet retorted, suddenly angry. It seemed to sharpen her. “Anyway, we are not alone. Someone’s in the road.” She nodded towards the gate. As the man whipped around to look, she reached into her handbag, flipped open the needle case, pulled out the largest needle and set it along the fold of the case spine so that the tip was poking out. Then she closed the case and held it pinched between her thumb and forefinger, over the part the needle ran along, to keep it in place. The whole manoeuvre took all of three seconds, but she just barely managed it before he turned his head back, annoyed.
“Think you’re clever, do you? Think I’m stupid? Bitch.” He strode up so fast Violet had no time to move. When he shoved her she stumbled backwards to the ground, banging her elbow and shoulder. Despite that, she managed to hold onto the needle case, though she didn’t dare look to see if the needle was still in place.
He stood over her for a moment, blocking the sun so all she could see was his triumphant silhouette. Then he lowered himself onto her, pinning her shoulders with his hands. He was not tall but he was wiry and strong from working outdoors, and he smelled of sweat and cigarettes and the sharp tang of the farmyard. When he pressed his groin against hers, he was hard. Violet lay frozen and terrified.
She was still holding the needle case. Under her fingers was the even pattern of embroidered canvas – the careful, mangled stitches made by her niece who loved her. The feel of those confident stitches snapped Violet back into the moment.
Jack Wells let go of one of her shoulders to reach towards his belt buckle. Now, Violet thought, and pinched the needle case tight and swung her arm up and over as hard as she could, praying as she stabbed into his neck that the needle was still there.
He screamed and rolled off her, clutching his neck. Go! Violet told herself, and jumped up. Ignoring the pain in her elbow, her shoulder, her back, she grabbed her handbag and ran, stumbling at first and then running faster than she ever had, even when her brothers had chased her when she was young. She got to the gate and scrambled over. She did not look back – that would slow her down. Her bicycle was still leaning against the hedge. As she reached it Violet could hear the clang of the gate being vaulted. She did not turn, but jumped on the bicycle and began to pedal hard.
She heard his panting and his swearing and his roaring, closer and closer, then felt a hand on her arm. She resisted wrenching it away, for she might topple from the bicycle. But she dug in hard with her legs, her thighs burning, and as she sped up he lost his grip on her, and Violet burst free.
She rode and rode, her lungs on fire, her mind frozen, not turning to look back, not slowing, pumping up and down on the pedals until she had put a few miles between her and the man. The road was empty, and there were no farms nearby, just fields and woods extending into the distance. The isolation made her thankful for her bicycle, a trusty steed taking her from danger.
Only when she reached a farm that spanned the road, and a turning towards a village, did she slow down. The farm was full of activity – not just the cows cropping grass in the adjacent field and a flurry of chickens pecking in the yard, but also a woman pouring something out into the grass by a side door, a man sitting in a chair in the sun, reading a paper, and three children kicking a ball about. A dog was jumping around the children and barking. The scene before her was so ordinary after what she had just been through that she almost laughed in disbelief.
She had left her hat back in the field, so her hair was everywhere, and the man and woman were staring at her. She cycled on. There was more traffic out now – people coming from church or going to family for Sunday lunch – and Violet tried not to make eye contact with any of the drivers or passengers.
On the outskirts of Winchester she stopped, propped her bicycle against the sign for the town, and scrabbled in her handbag for her compact. Looking at herself in the mirror, she took in her blotchy cheeks and matted hair, bitten lips and the wild look in her eyes, and thought: Powder and lipstick are not going to help. She raked her fingers through her hair to smooth it as best she could. When she put the compact back in her handbag, she realised Marjory’s needle case was gone. It would be lying in the field with the hat, and was lost forever, for Violet could not go back there. The thought of the abandoned needle case made her begin to cry, great shuddering gasps that shook her whole body.
But the storm did not last long; it was done.
Violet found Arthur’s handkerchief, dried her eyes and wiped her face. Lighting a cigarette, she breathed in deeply and blew the smoke skywards. For a brief moment she considered going to the police to report Jack Wells. But it would mean explaining to sceptical policemen why she had been alone in a field, and possibly dragging Arthur into the mess. No. She pictured the needle sticking in Jack Wells’ neck, and nodded to herself. That was enough. Violet Speedwell, she thought, look what you did.
She got back on her bicycle and coasted down the hill into town – past the railway station, the West Gate, down the High Street, and right at the Buttercross to head across the Outer Close. She hardly had to pedal, but felt pulled along by a magnet to the Cathedral.
Leaving her bicycle against a wall, Violet walked into the cool interior and straight up the central aisle of the nave to the steps up to the choir. It was empty, apart from a verger setting out a cloth and candles on the altar at the far end in the presbytery, preparing it for Evensong. Violet looked at the rows of chairs to the left and right of the central entrance. To her left was the Arthur cushion; to her right, the recently finished Tree of Life. On both the rows of fylfots peeked out, though without announcing themsel
ves; you had to look carefully to see them.
Violet considered the two cushions for a moment, then chose. She sat down on the Tree of Life, the seat creaking under her. Closing her eyes, she surveyed herself. Her breathing had slowed down and was almost back to normal. Her elbow still hurt, but the pain in her shoulder had subsided to a dull ache. Her thighs were tight from the long cycling with its sudden frenetic burst. She would have a bath later to relax them.
Down below she was sore, from Arthur and from the cycling. But as she sat and listened to her inner body, she imagined she felt a faint twinge. Violet opened her eyes and rested them on one of the broderers’ cushions on a seat in front of her. The mustard yellow and red stood out like jewels from the dark wood.
Now it begins, she thought. Now I begin.
Chapter 25
“I DO LIKE A journey on the train. A train cures everything.” Gilda turned from the passing Hampshire countryside and beamed at Violet.
“Yes.” Violet smiled back, though she knew it could not hide her exhaustion. For three months she had had so little sleep she wondered how she functioned.
Dorothy was sitting across from them wearing her green coat and faraway eyes. Violet had chosen a Saturday so that they could accompany her; otherwise she was not sure if anyone would come. Tom and Evelyn had said they would, though there was a fuss over getting someone to mind the children – a fuss Violet suspected had been manufactured to give them an excuse not to turn up. She had hoped Marjory and Eddie and Gladys might come, but knew she could not ask her brother to bring them. Of all the changes in the past year, not getting to see them regularly was one of the most painful. She still lived in hopes that Tom and Evelyn’s unspoken attitude might shift. With Dorothy’s help she had even remade the needle case Marjory had given her, painstakingly recreating its faults, just in case her niece visited and asked to see it. The month before, Marjory had made her a birthday card, a careful drawing of violets. Violet took heart that Tom and Evelyn were willing to pass it on to her. Indeed, Tom had shaken his head when he described Marjory’s ferocious insistence that the card be given to her aunt. “I don’t know where she gets it from,” he’d said.
A Single Thread Page 27