Walls of Silence: a stunning historical thriller you won't be able to put down

by Ruth Wade

  *

  The shopping for the picnic didn’t get off to the best start. The blackboard above Mr Gibson’s head showed what the butcher had to offer – and the prices. The lamb cutlets she’d been hoping to cook and serve cold were out of the question. It would have to be sausages instead. Her next decision concerned how small a piece of beef she could roast for the sandwiches. Which reminded her that she should get to the bakery whilst there was still a choice between a split tin or bloomer; the former could be sliced thinner but perhaps Edward liked thick crusts? There was so much about his tastes she didn’t know. What if he’d picked up some sort of digestive disorder on his travels and could only stomach fruit and vegetables? Just in case, she’d pick some apples from the rectory trees; some Victoria plums, too, if there were any the birds hadn’t pecked.

  All her dithering – and Gibson’s inability to move faster than a snail’s pace – meant it was over two hours before Edith had bought all the food on her list. She was standing opposite the Police House when Martha Culpert careered around the corner looking hot and flustered.

  ‘You’ll burst a blood vessel if you don’t slow down.’

  ‘Miss Potter.’

  ‘Edith, I’ve told you before, just call me Edith; anything else makes me feel about a hundred.’

  Martha tried a wobbly smile as she danced on the spot like a skittish racehorse.

  ‘I’ve had bad news and it’s thrown me somewhat. My sister’s been taken poorly. In fact she’s never been right since being delivered of the baby, only this time the doctor says there’s nothing they can do but operate. She’s to go into hospital and I’m scared she won’t come out again.’

  ‘Seeing something in its worst light isn’t like you, Martha, you usually think things will always work out for the best.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so. But her husband upped sticks and left a month back saying she was impossible to live with and I’m to go to Bath on Monday to look after the children. Except I can’t help fretting that if anything does happen then they’ll either have to come here, or I’ll need to persuade the vicar to petition for a living in that city and we’ve only just settled into village life.’

  Edith could see the tears getting ready to fall and decided that brisk practicality was the only way to save Martha the embarrassment of breaking down in the street and having the church full tomorrow with those wanting to gossip over the cause.

  ‘I’ll cover your slots on the flower rota and organise Mrs Halstead with the cards for the confirmation classes – she can give them out at next week’s Sunday School. The collection of clothes for the poor can wait until the end of the month and I’ll fit that in when I do the library rounds.’

  ‘Everyone is being so terribly kind. I was going to cancel the bring-and-buy but Mrs Shoesmith said she’d take over the running.’

  ‘Which is what she should’ve done in the first place if you ask me. Anyway, is there anything else?’

  ‘The refurbishment of the hassocks by Lewes Embroidery Guild; it’ll be our first Christmas here and I’d hate for there to be anything about St Margaret’s that wasn’t absolutely perfect.’

  ‘One way or another you’ll be back in Fletching way before then. And if not you can write me a letter with the details and I’ll see all the necessary is in hand. Now, I think it best if you take a deep breath and get on with things ... and stop worrying.’

  Martha’s face contorted with the effort of regaining control before bustling off up Five Mile Hill, her head bowed and her legs moving like pistons. Edith continued on her own journey until she drew level with the haberdashery shop where something in the window caught her attention. Would her purse stretch if she put off paying the milk bill until she’d drawn some money out of the post office in Uckfield? She leaned forward to read the price labels on the packets. In the moments it took for her eyes to refocus, she caught sight of her reflection in the glass.

  It was the smile making her look even younger than Martha Culpert that made Edith push open the door to purchase a pair of the best stockings Fletching had to offer.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Edward was waiting for her – just as she knew he would be. No one else had got off the bus, but still she lingered by the stop until it disappeared over the brow of the hill. The wicker basket was heavy in the crook of her arm and she was aware of listing slightly as she crossed the road. The macadam, baked by the sun, smelled of coal tar; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Late-summer days didn’t come any more perfect than this. He was leaning against a tree watching her approach, a bundle of tartan rugs over one arm and a small crate of beer hanging from the other hand. She felt as though they were about to embark on an adventure together – an expedition, perhaps, like the ones she’d stayed up half the night studying; Tilgate Wood was hardly the jungles of Borneo but, right now, it held just as much promise.

  ‘Have you been waiting long?’

  ‘Eleven years to be precise ...’

  She laughed. Edward handed the rugs over before taking charge of the basket.

  ‘You lead the way; your territory after all.’

  ‘Not really. I know of the stream and that there’s a hop-pickers’ camp way over the fields beyond; other than that this place is new to me as well.’

  Which was, of course, why she’d chosen it: she’d wanted the day to be fresh for both of them. Nevertheless she walked on ahead, picking up a narrow trail that came in from the right and snaked onward into the woodland. Above her head, magpies bickered. Edith smiled: two for joy. The sunlight filtering through the canopy cast a haze of soft green shadows and made her think she was floating in water. She felt buoyed along by happiness. The ground sloped down, brambles and bracken began appearing; small animals scurried away at their approach. Edward had fallen back and was puffing a little under the weight of the beer crate and basket of food.

  The trees thinned out to reveal a clearing of grass dotted with dandelion clocks, fuzzy-headed thistles, and thousands of daisies with centres like freshly polished brass buttons. Insects hummed and darted in the air, gauzy clouds of them swirling above the ribbon of slow-flowing stream.

  ‘Will this do?’

  ‘Perfect. Simply perfect. I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed the English countryside; I’d take this any day over miles and miles of scorched pampa.’

  He placed his burdens on the ground then turned and held out his hands. She gave him the rugs which he unfurled before crawling across them on his hands and knees, squashing down the lumps and bumps. Once they had settled themselves, Edith started to unpack the basket while Edward pulled an opener from his pocket and prised off the caps of two Pale Ales. He handed a bottle to her.

  ‘Cheers.’ He took a long pull. ‘Boy, I needed that; if I’d have known we’d have to walk so far I’d have worn a lighter jacket, or even donned shorts like a bona fide hiker.’

  She smiled. Some intrepid explorer he was, he’d probably had a retinue of porters to carry his belongings on his travels. The beer was soft and fruity. The combination of alcohol and sunshine made her brain buzz. Resting the bottle against the basket, she unwrapped the packages. The cooked sausages were scummed with grease but the sandwiches hadn’t suffered too badly, the bread still plump and uncurled.

  They ate and drank with only an odd word exchanged to point out a butterfly, or bird alighting on the opposite bank. It wasn’t until they were on to the scrumped fruit – and their second beer – that Edith felt time slipping away.

  ‘Tell me about yourself, Edward. You said you went abroad, where exactly?’

  ‘South America.’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘I decided it was as good a place as any. My father’s business was all-but ruined before the War so I knew it wouldn’t provide a living. And when you add in what little else remained available to me it was patently clear I no longer had a future in this country ...’

  The look he gave her from under lowered brows made Edith fiddle with the empty squares o
f greaseproof paper, folding them over and over before tucking them into the basket. She was going to ruin this if she didn’t relax. With an effort to appear unconcerned, she unfolded her legs from under her and stretched them out until her ankles were prickled through her gossamer-fine stockings by the grass beyond the rug. Edward mirrored her mood by unlocking his elbows to lie back, his hands behind his head.

  ‘After I discovered your father had salted you away out of the reach of my clutches ... I don’t suppose you know it was that sneak Cooke told him about us – the one who set up camp at the bottom of Dr Myers’ garden. When I didn’t hear from you I sought him out amongst the rhododendrons and he confessed he’d revealed our secret meetings a fortnight before. Anyway, Cooke regretted his big mouth and put me in touch with his brother who was using the opportunity of a lull in Atlantic U-boat activity to seek his fortune in rubber. The upshot being I went with him. On August 21st 1916 we sailed from Liverpool – and that was quite a journey, I can tell you, seasickness almost from start to finish. By the time we were in the middle of the ocean, I wanted to die.’

  He raised himself up on one elbow to reach for his beer. He drained it and placed the bottle in the crate. Edith wondered if he was going to crack open another pair. She would have to refuse hers if she wasn’t to succumb to a sleep-inducing lethargy; to miss even a moment of his company would be such a waste. But he was flat on his back again now, his face soaking up the warmth.

  ‘Your turn, Ede, I’m talking myself dry again here. What have you been doing with yourself?’

  How to select what to tell him? Condense things, fashion amusing or interesting anecdotes out of what had seemed at the time – and still did – as a stretch to be endured or made the best of? It came to her that she resented having to recount any of it; if he had been there then not only would this struggle to reinvent or embroider be unnecessary, almost all of it would never have happened.

  ‘Was it ever explained to you why I had to leave so suddenly?’

  Why had she elected to start way back then? Now she’d be forced to walk the fine line between honesty and not revealing too much.

  ‘Of course not. Dr Potter would’ve chased me off the premises with a shotgun if I’d had the temerity to ask. I had hoped you might enlighten me yourself though.’

  ‘I tried writing a few times but always tore the letters up. I ... I was scared of making you feel ...’

  She’d thought the pain long gone, but here it was bubbling in her chest like a kettle about to boil over. She tugged at some blades of grass, letting them fall one by one through her hot and sticky fingers.

  ‘I thought, in the end, that the kind thing would be to set you free. To find someone else who could give you everything I couldn’t ...’

  She had been about to say: give you the children I never could. But their relationship had never got that far and if he hadn’t known about her state of barrenness then, what would it profit either of them to have it revealed in a flurry of reminiscences now?

  ‘It was you I wanted to be with, Ede. You I loved ...’

  He’d never said that before. They’d never said it to each other. The thrill his words gave her wasn’t as all consuming as it would’ve been aged twenty-five, but it was there. The thrill was still there.

  ‘It was probably a day or so after you say Cooke told him about us when my father summoned me to his study. I was informed the professor engaged to tutor me in mathematics had taken up a position in Whitehall and wanted me by his side. It was made abundantly clear that I couldn’t refuse such an honour. Not that I was actually given an opportunity to do so as the next minute I was presented with a ticket to London and instructed to catch the milk-train. So, you see, I really had no choice in the matter.’

  She risked a glance. He turned his head and met her eye.

  ‘You might have chosen to post one of those letters ... Although I was gone myself within the month without a forwarding address. So let’s take it as read that you’re forgiven.’

  He removed one of his hands from behind his head to wave fingers in her direction.

  ‘Carry on ...’

  Was he teasing her? Or adopting a dismissive demeanour to cover up his disappointment in her younger self? But at least he’d made it obvious he didn’t want to dwell on that subject, for which she was grateful.

  ‘It was long hours and boring work in the main but most of the other girls were friendly and we managed to have some sort of a social life.’

  ‘Cocktails at the Café de Paris?’

  Edith laughed. ‘Hardly. A plate of pie and mash at a chop house was about our limit, but we did get to see a few shows when the theatres were open ...’

  Now she was grateful to Edward for another reason: in the private stitching together of her history, she’d neglected to include the good times. There might not have been many, but they were as real in her memory as everything else. What was the tall fair-haired northern girl’s name? She thought they might have been preparing to share a flat together. Just before the little world she’d built for herself blew up in her face.

  ‘Not long after the Armistice, Mr Cartwright stood beside my desk and told me I was surplus to requirements. Only he didn’t quite put it like that. The hostilities ending didn’t mean the work wouldn’t still continue but, according to him, positions could no longer be filled by women now all the brave young soldiers were returning home.’

  Edith swallowed the lump in her throat. Should she ask Edward for another beer? A fly was buzzing above his nose and he hadn’t moved to swat it away; had he fallen asleep? No matter, after all she was telling her story for herself as much as for him.

  ‘Well, there didn’t seem to be so many men to me – certainly nothing like the numbers I’d seen queuing outside Victoria Station for embarkation – and none of them was knocking on the door for the job of being shut in an airless basement cross-referencing files of classified documents and aerial photographs.’

  ‘It still upsets you, doesn’t it?’

  His voice had made her jump. She watched the shadows of the trees creep over the bank on the opposite side of the stream until they quenched the sparkles on top of the water.

  ‘So there I was with barely enough money to pay the rent and, having been educated in things other than secretarial skills, precious little prospect of finding myself alternative employment. Then I received a letter ...’

  ‘Ah, the letters sent and not sent, eh? I’ve no doubt a book could be written on that subject. Who was this one from, a lovesick boyfriend you’d kept waiting in the wings?’

  Now he was being thoroughly disagreeable on purpose. Was he intent on punishing her, despite his protestation of forgiveness? Or was it that she was being over-sensitive and that it had been a joke. It was inevitable she’d have forgotten how to appreciate a sense of humour. Besides, in her experience it was always safest to assume she was the one at fault.

  ‘It was from the vicar of a place I didn’t recognise who spelt out, in no uncertain terms, that my father was in the grip of advanced senility, and Christian duty, filial obligation – and everything else he could lay at my door – decreed I come and care for him. All of which was news to me because in the two and a half years I’d been at the Ministry I’d had no contact from my father except one Christmas card in 1916 saying he’d moved but not where to. So, you see, most of my life has been dictated by circumstances beyond my control.’

  ‘Isn’t that the same for everyone?’

  ‘Maybe. Except perhaps someone stronger than myself might have stood their ground occasionally.’

  ‘And if you had done then we wouldn’t be here now. Together again.’

  He had sat up and was hugging his knees to his chest, staring at her with a look she couldn’t interpret but was disturbing in its intensity. She shivered.

  ‘Don’t torture yourself over what might have been, Ede. Much better to save your energies for doing what you can to shape the future ...’

  His face a
ssumed a wistful expression before he turned his gaze away and began retying his shoelace.

  ‘... it’s all we’ve got.’

  The sun was dipping behind the trees and a malevolent breeze had started up, bringing with it the coolness of the water. Goosebumps sprang up on Edith’s bare wrists. But she didn’t want to suggest they leave just yet.

  ‘It was rubber, wasn’t it, that led you to South America? I take it you must have been successful to have stayed so long.’

  ‘I got there at the height of the final boom, then left just at the right time when the industry was on its last legs. I worked for a German as his overseer, travelling for days or weeks at a time to survey areas of the forest to be cleared to plant more rubber trees. Journeying by canoe and picking up a horse at the nearest barraca was the only way to get to some of the places he’d marked for speculation. And you can forget about maps; Indian local knowledge was all I had to go by, and more often than not it was unreliable – directions being easy to pay for but impossible to verify until you got there – or they would deliberately mislead in an attempt to preserve old hunting grounds or some such.’

  ‘You spoke the language?’

  ‘Picked up enough to get by, but I always let my guide do the actual negotiations over provisions and all the other important stuff. My skin was the wrong colour, you see, which was a major factor if one of the tribes turned out to be cannibals. Except escaping their cooking pot wasn’t the end of things because if they didn’t eat you, then there were plenty of other things that would. Clouds of mosquitoes so thick it appeared to be night-time; jaguars unafraid to stalk through a tent-flap; snakes fatter than these tree trunks ready to squeeze out the life before swallowing you whole; crocodiles haunting the river banks only pretending to be half asleep ...’