by S Block
Now, without Adam at its heart, the church’s dark corners and high ceiling amplified Sarah’s fears for Adam’s well-being following his capture at Dunkirk. She had no idea where he was being held by the Germans, or when she would see him again. Or if. This last thought usually struck her precisely two seconds after waking most mornings, and followed her all day, draining the colour out of everything. She knew he was too wise to deliberately antagonise his captors into treating him harshly. But she also knew he was too compassionate to avoid conflict with them if it meant securing better treatment for the young men in his pastoral care. In combat and in capture, Adam saw himself as their father figure.
Not knowing how he’s getting on is just crippling. I can deal with almost anything but this damned uncertainty!
A shuffling from the back of the church caused Sarah to turn round. She saw Miriam Brindsley, heavily pregnant, ushered towards the door as quietly as possible by her husband, Bryn, Erica Campbell and her husband, Will, the doctor. Others towards the rear of the church watched Miriam leave with her escorts. Sarah sensed Adam’s hand on her shoulder, prompting a dutiful urge to follow them out with an offer to help. Sarah then saw something that rendered such an offer unnecessary – Joyce Cameron, bustling along her pew in hot pursuit . . .
Chapter 5
Will, Erica and Bryn carefully steered Miriam along the church path, through the gate, down the small set of steps and onto the road. They were aiming for the surgery at the Campbell house, just across from the church. Erica was holding her own and Miriam’s hat, reasoning that no one needed to wear their best hat while giving birth, or assisting.
The clouds overhead had thickened since everyone had filed into church for the service. They carpeted the sky, pumped and fluffed up by the strong wind that whipped across Cheshire from the Atlantic. The leaves in the trees shimmered and rustled as the autumn air rushed through, pulling weaker leaves off branches to briefly dance on the air before dropping to the ground.
‘No need to rush her,’ Will cautioned. ‘The baby’s waited nine months, it can wait a few minutes more.’
Miriam winced as she walked across the wide road junction separating the church and the surgery. They were walking slowly, and were halfway across, but she didn’t know if she could make it all the way.
‘I’m not so sure!’
Bryn gripped her arm. ‘Try not to talk, love.’
‘Talking’s fine, Bryn. It’s moving I’m having trouble with!’
Erica glanced nervously at Will. His cancer meant physical exertion was to be avoided, but she resisted the urge to step in and take his place on Miriam’s left. She knew his state of health was in part down to his state of mind. Helping him feel strong and capable was part of his therapy.
Joyce Cameron burst out of the church and hurried down the path, pressing her hat onto her head against the rising wind. Joyce was used to being at the heart of any major event in the village and it left her convinced that without her supervision most things would almost certainly go awry. This conviction now extended to the imminent birth of Miriam’s baby, despite the presence of a fully qualified and highly experienced doctor, and Erica, an equally highly experienced pharmacist and assistant to her husband.
Joyce caught up with the birthing party halfway across the road, and fought to catch her breath.
‘If I go on ahead, Dr Campbell . . . is there anything I can get ready?’
Will glanced at his wife. ‘Erica, why don’t you take Mrs Cameron and set up.’
Erica nodded. ‘You have to do exactly as I say, Joyce – without question.’
Joyce nodded. ‘But of course.’
Miriam caught Erica’s eye and smiled at Joyce’s tone of mild indignation that she might be anything but completely obedient.
‘Come on, then . . .’
Erica led Joyce towards the house to get the surgery ready, as Will and Bryn continued to assist Miriam. She winced again and stopped, suddenly gripping Bryn’s hand so tightly he could feel the bones grind against one another.
‘Contraction?’
‘No, Bryn, small piece of grit in my shoe – what do you bloody think?!’
Will glanced at Bryn. ‘Best not to talk.’
‘I’ve tried telling her, Doc.’
‘Not Miriam, Bryn. You.’
‘Just get me across the road, Bryn. And tell me how much you love me every step of the way, because the way this is shaping up I’m going to need to hear that as often as you can get the words out!’
Bryn strengthened his grip around his wife’s waist, gently ushered her forward, and whispered in her ear, ‘I adore you so much at this moment I genuinely don’t have the words.’
He kissed her on the side of her head. A smile flashed across Miriam’s face and vanished in a spasm of pain. She focused on the Campbell house ahead.
‘Not far now,’ said Bryn.
‘Maybe not for you, boyo. Journey of a lifetime for me and this one.’
‘Everything’s going to be fine, Miriam.’
Miriam looked at Dr Campbell. His expression of calm reassurance gave her instant and complete confidence in what was about to happen to her and her baby. With her two escorts on either side, she took a deep breath and set sail towards the surgery, just thirty yards away . . .
Chapter 6
A thick shower of confetti enveloped the newlyweds as they emerged from the church door, publicly man and wife for the very first time. Before most of the confetti could land, the wind grabbed it and sent a swirling blizzard of colour into everyone’s faces. This distraction gave Pat the perfect opportunity to slip out of the church and scurry along the west wall towards the churchyard’s oldest gravestone. Pretending to be overcome by the occasion, she’d told Bob she needed a little air. This suited Bob down to the ground, as it meant he needn’t be dragged outside to pretend to celebrate the marriage of a couple he barely knew. He could sit out ‘all that nonsense’ in peace and quiet, without being buffeted by the cold wind outside.
Arriving at the lichen-encrusted gravestone Pat immediately saw there was no message from Marek. She felt a paroxysm of disappointment, but quickly tried to fathom what might have turned Marek from an ardent, regular correspondent into a man who seemed to have forgotten her over the course of a week. Her head was pounding. Is it something I’ve done . . . written . . . or said?
She knew Marek was busy training his men in preparation for remobilisation; perhaps he was too tired to make the effort to communicate? It did require a walk to and from the castle. Perhaps he was waiting until he had definite news to impart? Pat couldn’t help but develop this thought. What if he’s deliberately putting some distance between us – getting me used to the idea that it’s over? She knew he’d been concerned about how she’d be left feeling if anything happened to him when he returned to action. Was this his way of releasing her from those feelings, should that happen?
A cheer from the church entrance made Pat turn and see the bride and groom walk through a guard of honour created by men from Nick’s RAF station. The austere figure of Bob stood apart from the celebrants. He wasn’t watching them. He was watching Pat with an intensity that made her freeze with fear.
How long has he been watching me? Did he see? What did he see? There was nothing to see. I needed some air. That’s all you need to say. Calm down. He saw nothing. Smile.
Pat smiled at Bob and blinked as the first drops of rain splashed onto her face . . .
Chapter 7
By the time Great Paxford’s newest husband and wife took to the floor for the first dance, the colourful bunting outside the village hall was starting to take a beating from the wind and rain.
Inside, everyone’s attention was on the self-consciously sunny couple moving elegantly to the swing music from the band onstage. Nick’s colleagues raised their beer jugs and brayed approval as their boss sashayed elegantly past with his new wife, calling out, ‘Lucky sod!’ to him, and to Teresa, ‘It’s not too late to change your mind!’
To which Nick quietly whispered in her ear, ‘Actually, it is.’
Teresa took it all in good spirit. Teachers are performers by nature, and she played the role of blushing bride to perfection, holding Nick close, nuzzling her cheek against the cloth of his uniform, looking deeply into his eyes, giving every impression to those watching of being the happiest woman in the world. It wasn’t solely an impression. She did feel happier than she’d felt for a long while. She was well and truly married. The deed had been done. It was time to move on from months of self-doubt and anxiety and go forward with her life. Yet small flickers of doubt still flared in her mind.
Teresa regularly told the children at school that practice makes perfect. As the reality of spending the rest of her life with Nick yawned before her, Teresa couldn’t help but wonder how many years of practice it would require before she’d be able to perfectly pass herself off as ‘a respectable married woman’. She smiled more intensely, and gripped Nick’s arm more firmly. This is who I am now. This is what I am.
Dancing past the smiling faces of a community that had taken her at face value, Teresa was unable to avoid the irony that her sanctuary had become a form of prison, in which her security was guaranteed only as long as she played according to its social mores. I have to do this. This is what women like me have to do. Nick is a wonderful man. Never forget that. Nick is a wonderful, wonderful man.
Teresa repeated it in her head like a mantra as they continued to dance, past Alison, who was watching her from a table, smiling with delight at what she perceived to be Teresa’s new-found contentment. And she repeated it as she passed Annie, who was not smiling, but looking at Teresa impassively over a glass of white wine.
Annie had been with the Air Transport Auxiliary for six months, and had become a staunch friend of Nick’s while transporting planes for the RAF to and from Tabley Wood for use in theatre against the Luftwaffe. She had first noticed Teresa at a welcome dance for Marek’s Czech contingent, and hadn’t been able to take her eyes off her the entire afternoon. The same had happened the next time their paths had crossed, and on occasions since.
For her part, Teresa had noticed Annie watching her, and had been unnerved by the fascination she’d felt towards the remarkably self-possessed young pilot. Teresa hadn’t felt able to discuss her developing attraction towards Annie with Alison. But as her relationship with Nick became more serious, Teresa’s anxiety about her feelings for Annie manifested itself as ‘marriage jitters’. Alison told her these were perfectly natural and should be ignored, advice Teresa had tried to follow wholeheartedly. But now, as she danced around the hall with her husband, Teresa recalled the evening she’d found herself briefly alone with Annie at Tabley Wood. Annie had been urgent and direct, warning Teresa against marrying Nick unless she was certain it was the right thing to do.
‘Women like us can’t be conventionally happy,’ Annie said. ‘You know this.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Teresa replied. ‘Women like what?’
Annie had smiled. ‘You know what. Not the marrying kind.’
Teresa recalled watching Annie walk away, as a chill started at the top of her neck and rapidly travelled the length of her spine.
Annie caught Teresa’s eye as Nick waltzed her past. They didn’t smile at one another, but held each other’s gaze. Annie winked at Teresa and Teresa felt the blood drain from her face. She glanced at Nick to see if he’d seen, but he was too busy grinning like the cat who’d got not just some of the cream but all of it, as more colleagues on the periphery of the floor raised their glasses as they danced past. He grasped Teresa’s waist firmly and danced them towards a crowd of couples keen to cut loose. Teresa breathed a sigh of relief and put her mouth close to Nick’s ear.
‘I love you so much,’ she whispered.
‘You’d better,’ he replied, and kissed her, to a rousing cheer from the guests.
Annie watched Teresa disappear into the swirling bodies of men and women, and sipped slowly at her glass of wine.
Chapter 8
Sarah sat with Frances, who was trying to weigh up how much cake Noah could consume against how much was good for him. The boy was feeding himself adroitly with both hands without losing a crumb and Frances was sure it would end in tears, almost certainly at the bottom of a bucket.
Sarah had sat in church watching Nick declare his commitment to Teresa, and had listened to Reverend James portentously consecrate the significance of a Christian union. Adam had no time for public ‘piety by the yard’, as he called it. He would have discussed the challenges of married life with Nick and Teresa in private, weeks before the big day.
The ache of Adam’s absence usually hit Sarah hardest in company. It was now compounded by the understanding that her close friendship with Nick would never be what it once was. Their relationship had begun when Nick was billeted to the vicarage, and Sarah had become his de facto landlady. Later, with Adam’s enforced absence, Sarah’s friendship with Nick had grown deeper. She’d come to rely on him to bump her out of her dark moods with a sense of humour that disparaged her ill-judged attempts at gardening as ‘indiscriminate murder’, and found her atheism as someone married to a vicar by turns curious and amusing. She recalled the day Nick left to take up residence at the RAF station. There had been a moment – just a moment – when their relationship might have taken a more dangerous turn, but Sarah had snuffed out the possibility, and Nick had respected her decision.
Watching the Reverend James officiate had made Sarah miss Adam more than ever.
He is my life.
She wanted to slip away and curl up in bed and think only of her husband. But as the wife of Great Paxford’s vicar, she knew public expectation condemned her to be one of the last to leave.
Duty calls – smile!
She sighed and aligned her facial muscles into her well-practised smile, and looked around the hall. Adam loved these men and women to a degree that often shocked her.
He would have adored this. He would have pulled me onto the floor and made me dance the war away, and I would have loved it. He’s the only man I’ve ever met who could do that.
Sarah watched Nick and Teresa shake everyone’s hands and accept hugs and pats on the shoulder and slaps on the back. They looked as happy as it was possible to be.
Neither of you have any real idea what love is. Not yet. Not until it’s tested.
Sarah brought forth in her mind her favourite image of Adam’s face and charged her glass to the ridiculously happy couple as they wheeled past a third time. She took a slug of wine. And then another . . .
Chapter 9
Pat sat with Bob at a table in the corner and watched Teresa and Nick slowly work their way around the hall, thanking everyone individually for coming to the celebration. They seemed immeasurably happy. Pat recalled without pleasure that she had once done the round of guests at her own wedding thirteen years ago. Running through the memory felt like watching another woman and man in another lifetime. Bob had recently published his first novel to some acclaim. He had been confident and optimistic about their future. They’d felt the world lay at their feet. But he’d proved unable to deliver on that early promise.
The acrid smoke from Bob’s roll-up snaked across the air between them and wrapped itself around her face, stinging her eyes.
‘Not crying, Patricia?’ Bob’s voice was mocking. ‘Big girl like you.’
‘It’s just the smoke from your cigarette,’ she flatly replied.
Pat turned away from Bob and watched the party, smiling briefly at Steph Farrow, who was enduring a dance with her son, Stanley. Steph winced as Little Stan trod on her toes with every other step. She mouthed ‘Help me!’ at Pat as they galumphed past, out of time with the music.
‘Oh . . .’ Bob said. ‘Only my smoke.’ And then, quietly, with an edge, ‘Nothing to do with this, then?’
Pat turned to see Bob place a piece of folded foolscap on the table between them. Every muscle in her body instantly froze.
The folded paper was the type issued to the Czechs for their letters home – the type on which Marek always wrote to her. Pat wanted to snatch it up and devour its contents, but had to invoke every drop of self-control to calmly ask, ‘What’s that?’
Bob smirked. ‘I thought you’d do better than that, Patricia. I really did. I mean, really. That’s truly pathetic, even by your standards.’
‘I’m sorry, Bob. I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Pat had decided a long time ago that if Bob wanted her to break then he was going to have to break her himself – she wouldn’t do his dirty work for him.
‘Found it this morning. In your usual place in the churchyard. Very sweet. Almost moving. It’s not very well written, of course, even accounting for the fact it’s his second language, but what can you expect from those people?’
Pat’s mouth was bone dry, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. She felt as if she was falling into a dark, bottomless pit. He knows. How does he know? Since when? The questions were like hands reaching out to grab at anything that might stop or at least slow her descent. Pat felt her heart stop in her chest for several moments, and then start to race alarmingly.
‘What do you mean, you found it this morning?’
The blood was pounding in her head as she struggled to form coherent thoughts. The words she needed to combat Bob were beyond reach, their passage from brain to tongue strangled by rising fear. Bob looked at Pat, his face contorted into a sneer.
‘Where did I find it? You know where I found it. On your grave.’
Bob’s words were deliberately ambiguous. He was a writer – he chose them carefully to entertain his readers, and to terrorise his wife.