The Love of a Lifetime

by Mary Fitzgerald

  I took the train out of London and settled into a damp and sour-smelling compartment where my only companion was a slumbering clergyman. It was a rotten day with heavy rain which trickled down the windows. For a while, I amused myself by tracing circles and squares in the steamy glass but then my eye was increasing drawn to the scenes outside. Bomb damage was rife, factories, docks and residential housing all blackened and desolate with lost roofs and disconnected walls of crumbling brick. How would it ever be repaired, I wondered, all that destruction and hopelessness because it looked to me just like a world from another planet or from something out of an H.G. Wells book. But when the train slowed down, my mood changed. I could see lads playing in the ruined buildings, shouting and laughing as though this was the most natural thing possible and in a way that cheered me. Life did go on, after all.

  I stood up at our stop and painfully reached up to the luggage rack for my bag. Raising my left arm was still a struggle after my injury and an involuntary groan came to my lips. The clergyman who had woken and had chatted to me on the journey, offered to help.

  “Let me reach that for you, Sergeant,” he said kindly, but he was old and stooped and barely looked capable of getting his own small attaché case from the netting above the seats.

  “No thank you, sir,” I said. “I can manage.”

  I put it on the floor beneath my feet and waited for the train to get into the station.

  “Home is it, son?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I’m sure it’s a blessing for your wife and young ones that you’ve come safely through. And not only them. The country needs brave men like you to build it up again.”

  It would have been the right thing to say, I suppose for anyone other than me. I had no family, my son was dead and Elizabeth was far away in Ireland, refusing to come home. In her last letter, which I received just before leaving Calcutta, she talked about her little holding and the cattle she’d bought and how she was selling produce to the local hotel.

  ‘The place is popular with the anglers,’ she wrote. ‘We get all sorts, Americans mostly. My butter and cream has become quite a hit.’ Her last sentence was the most telling and gave me much pause for thought. ‘I feel very peaceful here,’ she had written.

  How could I spoil that, for her? It would be too selfish. But, nevertheless, I had made up my mind that as soon as I’d seen Mother and Billy, I would take myself off for a holiday at that hotel and see if I could do anything that would get us together again.

  I got out at our little country station and noted with dismay that even that had been affected by the war. The waiting room and the railings were shabby and the wood showed through for want of painting. Weeds were growing up between flagstones at the far end of the platform and the Station Master’s little garden, which I remembered being a gem of colour and careful manicure, was neglected and overgrown. I wondered where he had gone for he was nowhere in sight and no replacement obvious. Only a feeble youth was on the platform, dressed as a porter and all I got from him was a brief uninterested glance before he turned back to his newspaper where I could see that he was studying the football pages.

  For a moment, I was angry. I thought of all the lads I’d known, some even younger than he was, who had suffered and died in the past conflict. They hadn’t balked at doing their duty; they’d been driven by an ideal that this young man patently knew nothing about. I felt like saying something, challenging his indifference, but then I turned away. Why should I care? Life had changed for everyone. The war had made different people of us.

  “Oh, Richard, love,” said Mother, flustered from baking, when I walked into the kitchen, “I’ve been sorely worried about you, but thank God, you’re back with us, now.”

  My arm and shoulder hurt as she gave me a hug. But I didn’t let on. I wouldn’t have upset her for anything. She seemed to have shrunk and her hair had gone entirely white in the years that I’d been away, but she still bustled about the kitchen with her old vigour, chatting as she laid the tea things in front of me on the smooth old table.

  “Where’s everyone?” I asked. The kitchen was gloomy from the rain outside and the house seemed quiet. I could hear the grandfather clock ticking steadily in the hall but the normal sounds of hens and cattle were muffled.

  “About the place, working,” she replied. “We’ve got a new land girl. Ida left; got into trouble by some German prisoner of war who was working on Felstead’s farm. She’s gone home to her family to have the child, and the fellow says he’ll stand by her when he gets his release. The family isn’t happy though. It’s bad enough him being a German, but they blame us for letting her out.” She shook her head and brought out a seed cake from the tin. “What could I do? She’s a grown woman. Here,” she placed a large slice of cake on a plate and pushed it across the table to me. “The new girl is called Dorothy. Quite a nice type but dreamy like.”

  “I’m surprised you’re still getting the girls,” I said, pouring another cup of tea into the familiar blue and white cup. “I would have thought the men would be coming out of uniform and want their old jobs back.”

  She raised her arms in a gesture of despair. “Richard, believe me, we’ve tried. It was difficult enough getting them to work here before the war, but they’ve gone into the factories in the town. Better pay, they said.”

  I watched as she quickly cleared the table and put the plates into the sink ready for another round of washing up. Everything that Mother did was efficient and without fuss. She’d been looking after the house for so many years that her tasks were done so automatically that she barely noticed them.

  “You know what the real trouble is,” she added when her back was towards me and he hands plunged into the sink.

  I did. “How is he?”

  Her sigh was audible. “The same.”

  I went out then to find my brother and greet him. The rain was clearing away to the east and bright shafts of late afternoon sun brightened up the yard. I was pleased to see how clean and tidy it was and looking round, noticed with approval that the barns and sheds all in good repair. I put my head round the door of the milking parlour and found it scrubbed and sweet smelling. Those land army girls had worked well. When I went back into the yard, I met one of them opening the field gate and driving in the cattle.

  “Can I help you?” she said, giving at me a look which hinted that I was an interloper on this farm. She wore a broad-brimmed hat pulled well down over her face and a brown belted mackintosh over jodhpurs and rubber boots.

  “I’m looking for Farmer Wilde,” I said and then, looking at her closely, I recognised her as the girl called Gloria whom I’d brought out from the town that day, three years previously.

  “I’m his brother, Richard. Don’t you remember me?”

  “Yes,” she said, fixing a probing stare on me through her bottle top glasses, “I remember you now, but you’ve changed. Been out East, I heard.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I have to say, you do look bad,” she said. “Thin as a yard of pump water. I expect that foreign food wasn’t to your taste.”

  I smiled. Folks back home were ignorant of how we’d had to live and how some of us had had to die. And it was no good getting angry with them. It did no good.

  “Mr Wilde is in the top field,” she said and pointed back the way she’d come, as though I wouldn’t know where it was.

  I found Billy standing against the gate, rubbing some ears of wheat between his fingers. He didn’t hear me approach, so intent he was on something in the field and when I came up behind him and touched his shoulder, he jumped in fright.

  “What? Who?” He turned with a terrifying expression on his face and his fists came up, ready to strike.

  “It’s me,” I said, “home from the war.”

  For the longest moment, I swear he didn’t know me. His eyes narrowed and then opened and a puzzled expression was quickly followed by one of distaste. I was taken aback and gave a nervous laugh.
/>   “Billy, it’s me. Dick.” I put out my hand to him.

  Recognition dawned then and his face cleared. “Our Dick!” he said joyfully. “For a moment I could have sworn it was the Maj…” He stopped in mid-sentence and shook his head as though to come to his senses. “Where have you been all this time? I have missed you so.”

  His arms wrapped themselves around me in a loving but most painful grasp. I could feel his shoulders beginning to shake as the tears started and soon he was sobbing like a huge baby.

  “Come on, brother,” I said. “No need for all that.”

  “Every need,” he cried. “You’re the one person in the whole world I’ve been longing to see.”

  I can tell you, it was most touching and I was extremely moved. My emotions, normally quite stable, had been battered by months of injury and illness and I was unable to keep the tears from springing to my eyes. At that moment, I loved him as much as I had ever done. All the bad things that had happened were nothing; they could be put down to petty disturbances, expressions of individuality, or mere high spirits. Whatever other people thought about him didn’t matter. Nothing compared to this deep family friendship which we shared.

  Of course, once I thought about Elizabeth, then the doubts crept in. I loved her more than life itself and I had believed her when she told me about my brother’s brutality. But there, in the wheat field on a late September afternoon, I was prepared to take my brother’s love and affection for the wonderfully comforting thing that it was.

  “It looks ready for harvest,” I said, breaking away from the embrace and nodding towards the field.

  Billy stepped back and took a deep shuddering breath. “Yes, it does,” he said, “and I’m starting tomorrow. Forecast’s better,” he added cocking an eye towards the sky and sniffing the air.

  I caught a movement in the field behind him so I looked over his shoulder to see what it was. Billy saw my eyes and turned his head, straightening up as he did so and giving his tearful face a quick wipe with the sleeve of his thorn-proof jacket.

  At first I couldn’t see what had rustled the wheat or caused the bullfinches to fly suddenly out of the blackthorn bushes which hedged the top field. Then I made it out.

  A girl was walking alongside the hedge, carefully keeping away from the growing crop. She walked with an easy gait, a short slight figure in beige breeches and a green jumper. Blonde curly hair bounced carelessly on her shoulders. In her hand was a sprig of new heather and I knew instantly that she had been walking on the hill.

  “Who’s that? I asked.

  “Dorothy.” The name came out throatily and when I looked at him, my heart sank. That old glitter was in his eye and his tongue had flicked out to lick at a dribble of saliva at the corner of his mouth. “She’s a tart,” he added, his voice cold and contemptuous.

  “Oh God,” I groaned, “don’t start all that again.”

  Before he could answer, the girl had come right up to the gate and was standing beside us. She was pretty, not common looking in any way and modest, too, judging by the way she blushed when we looked at her.

  I waited for Billy to introduce me, but he said nothing. Now he was turning to go, his eyes fixed on the ground and his breath heavy and disjointed. I felt angry and anxious at the same time. If he thought I was going to let him get away with this display of bad manners and if he had it in mind to start abusing the girl, then I reckoned I’d better knock that idea on the head straight away.

  “Hold up, our Billy,” I said, grabbing his arm and pulling him round. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to this young lady?”

  I could feel the muscles in his forearm bunching up as he prepared himself to pull away or, God forbid, turn round and clock me one for my cheek. But then they subsided. Maybe he remembered the way I’d grabbed him by the front of his shirt that time before and threatened him. I don’t know. Perhaps I was making too much of his disregard for someone who, after all, was only one of his farm workers. Whatever it was he changed his mind and stayed beside us.

  “This is my brother, Richard Wilde, home from overseas,” he muttered. “She’s Dorothy Painter, come to help.”

  We walked back to the house together, the three of us, her and me chatting pleasantly and Billy silent but not as brooding as I’d feared. By supper time, he became quite animated, talking about the farm and the village then asked me questions about the war.

  “Do your injuries hurt much, Richard?” asked Mother.

  “Just now and then.”

  “My brother, Percy, was wounded in North Africa,” said Dorothy. “His leg was blown off.”

  That shut Billy up. He always hated the thought of people being physically impaired. But Mother persisted in questioning the girl. “That’s awful,” she said. “Has he managed to get a job since he came home?”

  “Oh no,” Dorothy shook her head, “he didn’t come home. He died later out there. Gangrene, they said. His mate that came to see us said that it was a blessing he’d been taken. The smell in the hospital tent was dreadful.”

  Crash! Billy’s fist came down with a thump on the table. “Shut up!” he roared. “We’re trying to eat our meal here. We don’t want that sort of disgusting talk.”

  Tears came into Dorothy’s eyes. “Sorry,” she muttered and silence reigned in the kitchen.

  Gloria had munched steadily through her meat and vegetables without speaking. She was as plain and uncommunicative as ever and I think these attributes, if you could call them that, suited Billy. I did see her give a sly look towards the tearful girl and her mouth curled up in a little sneer. Rotten cow, I thought.

  Dorothy ventured to speak again; this time to Mother. “Mrs Wilde,” she said, “do you mind if I go out tonight? They’re doing a play at the church hall for Christmas and I’m going to have a part. Rehearsals every Tuesday and Thursday. I’ll do the dishes first.”

  “No, love, I don’t mind. And don’t bother with the plates. I’ll do those. I want a good chat with our Richard anyway, so I wouldn’t be any company for you this evening.”

  It was like the old days: Mother and me by the kitchen range talking together on our own. Dorothy had gone out and Gloria had disappeared up to her room. I don’t know where Billy went but he’d been quiet and huffy again since supper, so I was glad that his glowering presence was elsewhere. I mentioned my fears for Dorothy’s safety to Mother. “He’s taken against her,” I said, “have you noticed?”

  “Yes.” She sighed and shook her head. “She should never have come here and I am keeping a close eye on her and on Billy. Fred Darlington’s been round a couple of times too. He says it’s a social call, but I know better and I’m grateful.” A fox barked somewhere in the fields and I could hear the wind in the chimney. “Billy doesn’t like him, you know. He says that Fred minds everyone else’s business and doesn’t care what Miranda gets up to,” she added.

  “What does she get up to?” I asked, intrigued and saddened that some scandal should be attached to Miranda Darlington. I liked her.

  “Nothing, of course,” said Mother wearily. “She’s got herself a part-time job in the village shop. Our William doesn’t approve of married women working outside the house.”

  We left it at that and then Mother asked me about Elizabeth and I told her of my plans to visit her in Ireland.

  “You can’t bring her back,” she said. “It wouldn’t do now. Too many years have passed.”

  “I’m not planning to.”

  She was quiet for a moment and then said, “You won’t stay there with her, will you?”

  Her voice was low and plaintive. She’d had a hard life and things hadn’t turned out the way she’d hoped for so it was unkind of me to answer the way I did.

  “I don’t know, Mother,” I said. “But if she wants me there, with her, then I’ll stay in Ireland for the rest of my life.”

  Chapter 27

  I went to Ireland the following month, travelling from Liverpool to Dublin and then train and ancient bus all a
cross the island until I reached the village where Elizabeth lived.

  She was bashing at a patch of stony ground with a mattock when I walked up the narrow, fuchsia lined lane and found her. At nearly forty, she was as slim and strong as ever and her hair still thick and curly, although those silver streaks that I’d seen last time, had spread further and glistened brightly in the lunchtime sun. I didn’t speak for a moment, for she hadn’t seen me, so concentrated was she on this hard task she’d set herself, and I wanted to take in her face and body and all that whole aura of her that I loved so much.

  It was she who spoke first. “Hello, Richard,” she said and looked up with her old grin and then laughed out loud.

  Throwing down my bag I leapt over the low stone wall and ran to her. “How did you know it was me?” I gasped, amazed with her as always.

  “I always know,” she smiled and lifted her face for my kiss.

  I stayed with her for a month, loving her as much as ever and needing her comforting so desperately. She was kind and patient with me, letting me to cry when I described what had happened in the jungle and holding me at night when the terrible dreams left me sweating and yelling out loud. It was she that allowed me to come to terms with the hatefulness of war.

  I told her about my visit to Sarah Wilton and how I’d had to lie about Lewis’s death.

  “She believed me, I think,” I said. “I hope so, anyway, for she’s taken his death very hard.”

  “Maybe she’ll remarry.”

  I wonder if she did. She was only young and that little girl needed a father. I lost touch with her after that, my fault, of course. I was poor at keeping up with acquaintances.

  Elizabeth’s farm was poor and I could see that apart from the few acres of decent pasture where she ran her small dairy herd, the rest of the land was thin and stony and hopeless for anything other than some sort of hardy breed of sheep.