A Woman's Courage

by S Block

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Welcome to the world of Simon Block!

  Woolton Pie Recipe

  Wartime Tales from Memory Lane

  Memory Lane Club

  Copyright

  This book is dedicated to all those who helped bring Home Fires to page and screen, and all its readers and viewers

  Chapter 1

  June 1941

  P

  AT SIMMS SAT IN the front pew of St Mark’s, parish church of Great Paxford, straight-backed, hands folded in her lap. She felt exposed, as if, despite her best efforts, those who had come to pay their respects to her husband, Bob, were able to see her for what she really was: not the grieving widow she appeared to be, but a woman on the brink of taking her first tentative steps towards the glorious freedom she had craved for so long.

  She gazed at the altar, oblivious to the consoling words of the Reverend James, her mind crammed with thoughts of the life she might now have, a future filled with possibilities unfolding before her. At last, the chance of real happiness. A small sigh escaped from her lips. At her side, her good friend, Erica Campbell, reached out and put a hand on hers.

  It seemed as if barely any time at all had passed since the funeral of Erica’s husband, Will. On that occasion, the church had been packed, a measure of the high regard in which the villagers had held their doctor. The turn-out for Bob, Pat noted, was smaller but nonetheless respectable. Many of those in attendance were friends of hers from the WI. Most, if not all, Pat guessed, were there to express support for her, rather than for Bob, who had made almost no effort with anyone in the village. The one exception, of course, was Joyce Cameron, who had been genuinely fond of him.

  At the signal from Reverend James, Pat got to her feet to deliver the eulogy. She had agonised over what to say, lost count of the number of versions written and discarded before arriving at a form of words she felt were appropriate.

  Words that would not stick in her throat when the time came.

  She chose to focus on Bob’s work, the success he had achieved through his writing, and the passion for what he rather grandly referred to as his ‘calling’.

  ‘When he died, Bob was busy working on another book,’ she began. ‘I can honestly say his dedication and commitment to his craft were nothing short of exceptional. ’

  Once she had spoken about his books, she spoke of the war, the character he had shown in coping with the debilitating injuries suffered while reporting on events at Dunkirk almost exactly a year earlier. On she went, choosing her words with care, saying only that which was indisputable, while keeping to herself the painful truth about a man who, behind closed doors, had been cruel and brutal, given to violent outbursts.

  She kept her eyes on her notes as she outlined the efforts Bob had gone to in order to provide the house they had only recently moved into, pausing briefly as the memory of the two of them arguing on the night he died came back to her. For a second or two the text seemed to shift and separate on the page. She hesitated, not daring to meet the gaze of those facing her, afraid her audience might be able to read between the lines of each sentence she uttered and judge them inadequate. She imagined someone jumping up to challenge her, asking her what had really happened, and what she really felt.

  But, of course, nobody did. Why would they? She was among friends and they believed her, felt for her.

  She wondered what they might say if they knew the truth.

  *

  Sarah Collingborne sat near the front of the church with her sister, Frances Barden. The make-up of the congregation made Sarah reflect on the many women in the village who were now, one way or another, without their menfolk. Certainly, the toll the war was taking on the community was considerable.

  Sarah’s own husband, Adam, had chosen to leave his post as vicar of St Mark’s in order to serve as an army chaplain, and had then been captured at Dunkirk. At least she knew he was alive, and she held fast to the hope he would, one day, return. She glanced sideways at her sister.

  Frances was alone, too, in a way – widowed when her husband, Peter, was killed in a car crash. On her other side sat Noah, Peter’s son by another woman, whose existence Frances had only found out about after Peter’s death. She had adopted the little boy, but Sarah knew Frances missed Peter, and missed the vision of him she had believed in before his death brought his secrets to light.

  In death our secrets, however carefully we conceal them, have a habit of revealing themselves, thought Sarah, often in ways no one would ever have predicted. Perhaps we can only hide our true selves for so long.

  Sarah gazed at Pat, who was speaking with remarkable composure. Sarah was one of the few people who knew about the beatings and bullying to which her friend had been subjected throughout her marriage. Over the years, Pat had become expert at creating the impression that all was well, even when the opposite was true.

  She looked pale, Sarah thought, her face more lined than a week ago, the tell-tale smudges beneath the eyes indicative of sleepless nights. She was a little thinner, too, the coat she had on swamping her. Pat was composed on the surface, perhaps – but what was she feeling inside? As Sarah took in her words, she could not help thinking how unfair it was that Bob should be laid to rest with dignity, his reputation unsullied. Yes, he was the writer, the man of letters his wife spoke of, but he was also so much more.

  So much less.

  Sarah watched her friend as she paid tribute to a husband she had not loved: a difficult balancing act, indeed. It was what Pat didn’t say that struck Sarah as significant; no mention of her love for Bob, nor the sense of loss one would expect her to be feeling now that he was gone. Instead she harked back to the past, recalling how the two of them first met, Bob an aspiring novelist, Pat working for a publisher.

  It was safer ground than the here and now, and a clever way of suggesting all was well between them without saying anything that wasn’t actually true. Sarah understood. It was all a front. Pat simply doing what had become second nature to her over the years.

  *

  Teresa Lucas had been in two minds about whether to attend the funeral. Since her husband, Nick, had resumed his duties as a fighter pilot, she had been overwhelmed by anxiety, afraid that he would lose his life. A funeral, she knew all too well, would only make her feel even worse.

  Given the nature of Nick’s job, where death was an occupational hazard, Teresa had become almost primed for the worst thing to happen. Pat’s situation, however, could not have been more different. Bob was at home, facing nothing more dangerous than a typewriter, which made his death all the more shocking.

  It seemed w
rong, somehow. Against the order of things.

  Did that make it worse? Teresa wondered. Was loss not simply loss?

  She chose to sit near the back of the church, close enough to the door that she could slip out unnoticed if she felt unwell. In recent days, Teresa had discovered just how debilitating the early stages of pregnancy could be. Morning sickness was something she knew about, of course – or so she ’d thought, anyway. What she had been blissfully unaware of was that powerful waves of nausea could occur, with precious little warning, at any hour of the day. So-called ‘morning’ sickness was, she had come to realise, a misnomer.

  For the best part of a week, Teresa had kept very little down, almost everything she ate sending her dashing to the bathroom to be sick. She felt hollow, light-headed. Nothing tasted right. Even a simple piece of toast spread with jam, or a dash of milk in her tea at breakfast, would somehow turn her stomach. The air inside the church felt stale, the scent of flowers unpleasant. She wondered what her chances were of making it to the end of the service without incident.

  Other than Nick, the only person who knew she was pregnant was Great Paxford’s GP, Myra Rosen, seated a few rows in front, who had assured her the sickness was normal and would pass. When, though? Teresa wondered. And what about the child she was carrying? How could it possibly grow when its mother was barely eating?

  She had not yet become used to the idea of having a baby. Only a few months had passed since she and Nick were married, and she felt she was still learning the ropes when it came to being a wife, making mistakes her husband knew nothing about. When she thought about her friendship with Annie and how she had recently allowed it to tip over into something more, her morning sickness became tinged with queasy guilt.

  What madness had possessed her to betray Nick at the risk of losing everything?

  She blinked rapidly, grateful to have come to her senses, and made a vow to herself to be a good wife in future. A faithful wife. No more infatuations. No more deceit. The Teresa of old was gone for good.

  Soon, she would be a mother. The thought of it terrified her. While she knew she was good with children, and had been an excellent teacher, motherhood was an entirely different prospect. She felt in no way qualified, and had no experience of babies. What was meant by maternal instinct? What if she wasn’t up to it?

  No. She had to be.

  The doubts she had about herself and her own abilities did not extend to Nick. He would, she felt certain, know instinctively how to be a wonderful father. As long as he gets the chance, she thought. Dear God, please keep him safe. I will be a good wife and mother, if only you keep him safe.

  Teresa brought her thoughts back to Pat. She had last seen her at a WI meeting and had intended to ask about the new house, until the air-raid siren sounded and sent everyone to the shelter. From that moment on, Teresa’s only thoughts were of Nick and whether he was among the pilots sent up on that night’s op.

  She could not bear to think of Pat returning home that night to find her husband dead. It seemed beyond cruel.

  Teresa marvelled at Pat, so calm and dignified, her voice steady. Either she was coping supremely well or, more likely, she was in a state of shock. What would the future hold for her now? Alone, stuck inside a big house she had barely had time to get to know, all semblance of the life she had imagined suddenly gone.

  Teresa swallowed hard.

  We none of us know what lies ahead, she thought. Anything can happen. Almost always, when we least expect it. No matter what we tell ourselves, all we can know with any certainty is that nothing is certain.

  *

  Joyce Cameron dabbed at her eyes with a hanky. It had come out of the drawer pressed and pristine that morning and was now damp with tears. It was not like Joyce to allow herself to be overcome by her feelings, or to express them in public. In most things, she was the epitome of the stiff upper lip, the type to confront whatever life laid at her door and get the better of it. Chin up, she would tell herself. What else could one do?

  The year before, when a Spitfire crashed onto the village and Joyce was among the casualties, she had remained stoical, thinking herself fortunate to have sustained only minor injuries, aware of how much worse things could have been. In some ways, the crash had changed her life for the better; Pat and Bob, whose home was destroyed, had come to live with her on a temporary basis. As Joyce recuperated, Pat took on the role of housekeeper and Bob settled at his typewriter.

  In a short space of time, Joyce had grown immensely fond of her lodgers. She had enjoyed their company, and felt privileged to witness first-hand the long hours Bob spent hunched over the typewriter, bashing away at the unwieldy keys, sustained by cups of tea or a sandwich consumed at his desk – all in the cause of producing the exhilarating, page-turning prose Joyce knew him to be capable of. It was this talent of his that had enabled Pat and Bob to eventually move into their own home, a large property in a remote spot some distance from the village.

  Joyce had been happy for them, of course, but at the same time she had been sad to see them leave, knowing how keenly she would miss their company.

  ‘I envy you, Patricia,’ she ’d said, as they prepared to move out. ‘You really have it all. A clever and talented husband, a wonderful marriage. My dear, you deserve every happiness. ’

  She had intended to give them a few days to settle in to the new place and then pay a visit, but somehow she had been distracted by matters closer to home; various household tasks she had been meaning to see to for a while. Trivial matters, she now realised. Nothing that could not have waited.

  She had never gone to the new house, and now Bob was dead. She could not quite take it in.

  A couple with so much to live for, their future snatched away by the most terrible tragedy.

  We think we have all the time in the world, she thought, believing the worst will not happen to us. And yet we can lose what we hold most dear in the blink of an eye, our lives turned on their heads without any preamble. How can that be right?

  Finding herself welling up once more, Joyce reached for the damp hanky and pressed it into service.

  *

  Pat made her way back to her seat dry-eyed, the handkerchief in her bag unused, still folded into a neat little square. She caught only some of what Reverend James was saying: ‘Death will be no more. Mourning and crying and pain will be no more. ’ Had she suggested that particular reading? She couldn’t remember. The arrangements for the funeral had been made in something of a daze. Erica, who had been through it all herself so recently, had done most of the work, with Pat simply nodding her assent to whatever was suggested. She had been dreading the occasion, knowing she would find it an ordeal, something to get beyond.

  ‘For those words are trustworthy and true,’ said Reverend James.

  Trustworthy and true. Pat bent her head, feeling all eyes on her. It was naïve to assume she was surrounded only by well-wishers. In a village like Great Paxford, there was always talk, a twisted pleasure to be derived from malicious gossip. Perhaps already some were speculating on Bob’s unexpected death, hinting that it was not just sudden but suspicious. Mrs Talbot came to mind. She had always been sharp-tongued, quick to judge, not one to hold back when it came to tittle-tattle.

  Pat wondered if this was how it felt to be on the stage, a character playing a part. If ever there was a time to give the performance of her life, this was it. For her own sake – and for Marek, who was now away fighting. His words to her before he had left, urging her to find a way of enduring in his absence, were what now kept her going. Be strong. Survive. She stole a glance at Erica, the only person who knew about her secret love, and felt a prickle of guilt.

  I am about to bury my husband, and it is my lover who occupies my thoughts.

  In the days that followed Bob’s death, Pat had felt as if she were in enemy territory, picking her way through a desolate landscape, bombs exploding around her, bullets screaming past her head. If she were to survive, she knew she could n
ot afford to put a foot wrong.

  It was what she held onto when the police questioned her about Bob’s death. A fall, she had told them. An accident, while she was out for the evening. Bob, who was unsteady on his feet, his bad leg prone to giving way under him, must have lost his balance at the top of the stairs. It was the only explanation. Borne out, it appeared, by the rug that lay crumpled on the landing.

  The police officers had been sympathetic, concerned for Pat, never so much hinting at any wrongdoing on her part.

  ‘A dreadful thing,’ the detective had told her. ‘Is there anyone you could stay with for a few days? It might be too much for you, being alone in such a big house after . . . ’

  She had caught sight of them earlier at the back of the church, the detective with greying hair and kind brown eyes, and the younger man in uniform, who had made her cups of strong tea with generous amounts of sugar. Pat wondered if their presence at St Mark’s meant they had not yet finished with her, and her stomach cramped in alarm.

  No, she had no reason to be afraid. It was an accident. Nobody thought otherwise.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, the events of that fateful night coming once more into sharp focus. Bob bearing down on her, about to deliver another beating. Knowing she must stand up to him or forever be his prisoner. What she had done was an act of self-preservation.

  I did not kill my husband. I did not push him. He lost his balance.

  She blinked.

  I have blood on my hands.

  Grainy images came to her of the seconds before Bob fell, and she heard again the sickening crack as his head hit the polished wooden floor of the hall, saw herself sidestep the rug he had slipped on and slowly descend the stairs.

  She had done nothing as he took what might have been his final breath. She had felt not guilt but relief. What did that make her? She had hated him, wanted him dead.

  Well, she had got her wish.

  She rose for the final hymn. ‘Abide with Me’. Another choice she did not remember making.

  As Bob lay dying in front of her, she had made no attempt to save him. She had not called for help, not telephoned for an ambulance. Instead, she put on her make-up and got ready to go out. She had coolly stepped around her husband’s lifeless body and shut the door on him, gone to the WI meeting as if nothing was amiss.