by S Block
Sarah made her way out of the village, past the Observation Post, Adam’s letter still in her pocket. She had been overwhelmed by the kindness of the congregation, and felt as if their good wishes had suffused her with energy. Once at home, she was too restless to read or listen to the wireless, and the darning that lay in her sewing basket held little appeal. She considered getting out into the garden and doing some tidying there, but quickly dismissed the idea, putting on a pair of comfortable shoes instead and setting off for a long walk.
Some time later, she stood in front of Pat’s yellow door and pressed the bell. So much had happened since she first visited the house with Frances and Alison, less than three weeks before. Then they’d stood on the doorstep, knocked and got no reply – despite hearing the unmistakable sound of typewriter keys being struck within. They had persisted, ringing the bell, rapping on the door, even calling through the letterbox – but to no avail. All the while, the relentless hammering carried on. It was enough to set your teeth on edge, Alison had remarked, astonished that such a racket could yield anything remotely creative.
Finally, they’d given up and gone away.
Now the front door opened and Sarah smiled. ‘Hello, Pat. I wondered if you might like some company?’
‘Sarah. ’ Pat was surprised to see her. The house was out of the way, six miles from Great Paxford – not what might be called well-situated for visits of a spontaneous nature.
‘I’m sorry to turn up like this without any warning,’ Sarah said. ‘We missed you at church this morning, and it’s such a lovely day that I felt like walking. And I wanted to see how you are. Am I interrupting?’
‘Not in the least. ’ Pat smiled. ‘Come in. ’
After the heat outside, the hallway felt delicious and cool, if a little gloomy. ‘We can sit in the garden at the back, if you like,’ Pat was saying, as she headed off along the narrow passageway. ‘The front doesn’t get the sun until later in the afternoon. ’
Sarah hung back. Facing her was the staircase, a wide sweep leading to the rooms above. It was steep, with no landing halfway. Nothing to break a fall. Her gaze dropped to the floor, the stained floorboards that were so highly polished they gave the impression of being wet. Almost like a deep, dark pool. She imagined taking a step forward and slipping, fighting for breath. This was where it happened. A shiver ran down the back of her neck.
When she looked up, Pat was at the end of the corridor, watching.
‘I’ll make tea,’ she said. ‘Come through when you’re ready. ’
They sat at an old wooden table in a shady spot in the garden. Tiny birds with bright red heads and elaborate plumage darted in and out of a horse chestnut. ‘Goldfinches,’ Sarah said. ‘What is it you call them when there’s a group like that?’
‘A charm,’ Pat said, not taking her eyes off a bird that hung almost upside down on a flimsy branch. ‘It seems the right word. They’re the prettiest little birds. ’
At the funeral, Sarah had thought her friend looked thin and worn out, as if she had not slept. It was not surprising, given what she had been through. Already, in the space of a few days, she seemed much better.
‘I see the For Sale sign is up,’ Sarah said.
‘I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to,’ Pat told her. ‘Not now. ’ There were too many memories. The wrong type.
‘I think you’re right to move. As soon as you’re able. ’ Sarah studied Pat, who suddenly seemed miles away. ‘How are you?’ she asked gently.
‘I’m fine, coping. It’s just . . . ’ Pat was quiet for a moment. ‘I wonder, is it true what people say about secrets? That they always come out sooner or later?’
At Bob’s funeral, Pat had done all she could to portray him as a decent man, a good husband, when nothing could have been further from the truth. Sarah understood. Having covered for him for so many years, the last thing she would now want would be for his cruelty towards her to become widely known.
‘I think we’re entitled to keep certain matters to ourselves, to have a degree of privacy when it comes to personal matters,’ she said. ‘So, in answer to your question, no, I don’t think secrets need always surface. ’
Pat nodded. ‘I blame myself for Bob’s death. If it wasn’t for me—’
‘You mustn’t think like that,’ Sarah interrupted.
‘I made him angry, more than you can imagine. Me. Almost everything I did put his back up: working at the Exchange, the things I said, what I didn’t say, my clothes, the books I chose to read. ’ She gave a helpless shrug. ‘It’s as if everything about me sent him into a fury. I was a constant source of irritation. I can’t help thinking that if only I’d been different, perhaps he ’d still be alive. ’
‘I don’t follow . . . ’
‘That night. ’ Pat took a breath. ‘He didn’t want me to go to the WI meeting . . . I insisted. The last conversation we had was an argument. ’ She stared at the ground, unwilling to look Sarah in the eye.
Sarah knew from Adam’s work in the parish that Pat was not the only woman in Great Paxford to suffer at the hands of a violent partner. Some had confided in him, hoping their vicar might be able to offer advice on how best to change their ways – ‘become better’, as one woman put it – so that their husbands no longer felt compelled to beat them black and blue. Adam had done all that he could to assure these women they were in no way to blame.
‘Bob treated you very poorly,’ said Sarah. ‘He made your life miserable. He might as well have put a chain around your neck. That’s not love, Pat, and I don’t believe there’s anything you could have done to placate him. It wasn’t you that made him violent, it was his need to control you. I can’t begin to understand what made him like that, but one thing I am certain of is that you weren’t the cause. He was a bully. That’s all there was to it. ’
Pat didn’t look up. Sarah followed her eyes to where a ladybird was making its way over the stone path.
‘I can only imagine what you’ve put up with, the treatment you’ve endured over the years,’ Sarah said. ‘But Pat, it’s over now. You’re no longer shackled, and that’s a good thing. You can move back into the village and be among your friends. Imagine – no more having to rush home because Bob’s waiting, one eye on the clock. If you run into a friend, you can stop and chat if you feel like it. ’ Sarah hesitated. She wanted to get this right. What would Adam have said if he were here? After so many years with him, had some of what she thought of as his vicar’s wisdom rubbed off on her?
‘Even if your life together wasn’t happy,’ she went on, ‘it doesn’t mean you’re not grieving. And I know you’re feeling guilty, too – not that you have any need to. We don’t have long on this Earth and what time we have is filled with uncertainty. No one expected Bob to die when he did – least of all you – but that’s what happened. It’s what God or the Universe or however you want to think of it had in store for him. ’ A friend of hers in Oxford was fond of saying, When it’s your time, it’s your time, and Sarah happened to think they were on to something. ‘I don’t know much,’ she said, ‘but I do know life is for living, especially now, when we’re at war. ’
Pat looked at her. ‘I was going to come to church today, but I just couldn’t face it. ’
Sarah took the letter from her pocket and pressed it into her friend’s hand. ‘It’s from Adam. I shared it with the congregation this morning. There were some bits I skipped, but . . . well, I don’t mind if you see them. Go on, read it. ’
When Pat finished with the letter, she handed it back with a pained smile. ‘Here I am, wallowing in my own troubles, and I hadn’t even asked about Adam or how you’re managing without him. ’
Sarah smiled. ‘I’m managing well enough, really. It’s extraordinary how much comfort a few lines can bring. ’
Pat nodded.
‘It might sound trite, but it feels as if there’s a piece of him that’s present now, somehow
. As if he’s with me, under my skin . . . tucked inside my heart. ’ She laughed. ‘Does that sound ridiculous?’
Pat smiled. ‘Not at all. I know exactly what you mean. ’
It was how she felt about Marek.
Chapter 5
F
RANCES BARDEN HAD THE air of a woman on a mission. Something about the tone of her voice, the almost imperious tilt of her chin and the determined gleam in her eyes gave it away. They were all familiar signs to those who knew her.
She was impeccably turned out as ever, in a silk blouse and elegant trousers, her copper hair fashioned into complicated curls. Frances was a commanding figure, and she approached her role as chair of Great Paxford’s WI with the utmost dedication; no one doubted that Frances was the right woman for the job – not even Joyce Cameron, who had once coveted the position herself. Frances was inspiring, a natural leader who saw it as her mission to elicit the very best from her ladies. She had a reputation for making stirring speeches, urging the membership to aspire to great things – and, invariably, they responded. Her contagious ‘can do’ attitude was precisely what was needed during such challenging times. She was energetic, relentless, driven to press constantly for ideas that would keep the branch and its members fully occupied working for the greater good. At times her enthusiasm was utterly exhausting. ‘We are doers, ladies, and there is always more that can be done,’ she was fond of saying, prompting Sarah to point out how much she was beginning to sound like Mr Churchill. Frances took this as a great compliment.
The country was at war. It was not a time to take things easy.
Frances was inordinately proud of the achievements of the WI. The soup kitchen at St Mark’s, set up to offer a hot meal to the nightly trekkers coming to escape the Liverpool bombings, was a fine example of members pulling together. A shelter had also been created in the village hall for families driven from their homes. The actions of the WI had ensured order and harmony in what might have otherwise been a chaotic time. They had defused the tension between those seeking refuge and villagers opposed to their presence. It was not too dramatic, Frances felt, to believe that for a time at least, the peace of the entire community had been at risk – and they had been the ones to fix it. Frances felt immensely proud of all the branch had achieved.
Now, though, the bombing had abated, and the people of Liverpool no longer felt the need to escape their city each night. A few stragglers continued to arrive, but the numbers had dwindled to such an extent that the soup kitchen was no longer felt compelled. A vacuum now existed – and Frances felt compelled to fill it.
‘I was thinking, ladies,’ Frances said, addressing the committee members gathered in her dining room, ‘that we could do with finding a new project, something . . . significant. ’
Erica sent an uneasy look in the direction of Sarah. All those on the committee were accustomed to the sometimes overly ambitious schemes dreamed up by their chair. Often, Frances struck precisely the right tone and tapped into the general mood, but occasionally her ideas veered towards the downright impractical. At one stage she ’d been keen for members to make and deliver lunches each day to farmworkers – a mammoth task which had not taken off.
Before anyone had a chance to speak, the door opened and Pat appeared, slightly out of breath. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ she said, pulling out a chair at the end of the table next to Erica. ‘I cycled and it took longer than I expected. ’ She shrugged off her cardigan.
‘On behalf of all of us, welcome back,’ Frances said. ‘Without wishing to dwell too much on all that you’ve endured – and still will for some time to come – you’re among friends. Anything we can do, you need only ask. ’
There were murmurings of agreement around the table and Pat nodded, grateful to be with friends who had some understanding of what she ’d suffered at Bob’s hands. It never ceased to amaze her that, given Bob’s reckless and at times brutal character, there were many in the village who had never managed to see through her husband. In general, allowances had been made for him. Bob Simms was unusual, after all. He was a writer, in a world of his own. The consensus seemed to be that he was not so much rude as in possession of various authorial quirks.
Among those who subscribed to this view was Joyce Cameron. Ordinarily formidable and not one to suffer fools, Joyce had been completely taken in – mesmerised, almost – by the simple act of Bob sitting at the typewriter bashing away at the keys, as if that in itself signified both creative genius and innate goodness. Joyce had been in a better position than anyone to observe Pat and Bob at close quarters when they lodged with her – and yet, for reasons Pat was unable to fathom, she had failed to spot anything untoward. Bob’s sarcasm, his brusqueness and lack of patience went unnoticed. Joyce held him in the highest esteem and since his death had kept asking Pat in sorrowful tones how she was coping without him.
She was coping perfectly well. Bob’s death, shocking though it was, was a welcome release.
He was her jailer and now she was free.
Pat smiled at the women surrounding her, counting herself lucky to have such good friends, women who would go out of their way for her. Anything at all, you only have to ask. She was overwhelmed by their kindness.
And there was another feeling too, a deeper one, a prick of guilt. She was not the grieving widow most of them thought her. She did not deserve their kindness.
‘We’ve missed you,’ Erica said.
‘I’m glad to be here,’ Pat replied. ‘Although some might think it too soon to be out gallivanting—’
Alison gave a wry smile. ‘A WI committee meeting hardly constitutes gallivanting. ’
‘Unless people think a “committee meeting” is cover for something else,’ Steph Farrow teased. ‘A secretive gathering conducted behind closed doors, discussing who knows what? We could be up to anything!’
Frances raised an eyebrow. ‘Hardly. ’
‘Our meetings are among the few occasions I have to ditch my farm overalls and put on a dress and some make-up and look half presentable,’ Steph said. ‘Remind my Stan what he sees in me. ’ She smiled. ‘I ran into Gwen Talbot one day when I was on my way here and she had the cheek to ask where I was off to “all done up”. ’
‘What did you tell her?’ Sarah asked.
‘I said I had a date. Which was true – a date with you ladies. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. ’
There was laughter around the table.
As Pat had pedalled through the village, rejoicing in her new-found freedom, a cool breeze on her face, she had been aware of several pairs of curious eyes on her, as if people were surprised to see her out. It was her first proper outing since the funeral, and it occurred to her that the mere act of riding a bicycle might be considered inappropriate by some – frivolous, even. Until she moved back to the village, however, it was simply the most practical means of getting about.
‘No one can expect you to avoid all company,’ Sarah told Pat.
Frances agreed. ‘Stuck on your own, miles from anyone. The house is lovely, I’m sure, but rather out of the way. ’
Pat nodded. ‘I suddenly felt the need for company,’ she said. ‘I was listening to In Your Garden yesterday and found myself chatting away to Mr Middleton. ’
Sarah smiled. ‘I frequently converse with the wireless. ’
‘I used to talk to Boris,’ Alison admitted, smiling at the thought of her old dog. ‘And I found him to be a very good listener, too. He had an intense look of concentration about him, as if he hung on every word I said. I convinced myself he really understood. ’ She gave a wry smile. ‘Although, thinking back, I suspect his keen expression was geared more towards getting a treat than anything else. ’
‘I was half expecting Mr Middleton to say something directly back to me. ’ Pat shook her head. A month had passed since Bob’s death, during which time she had kept to herself and had little company. ‘It made me realise being cooped up for too long is
n’t healthy. The new house is lovely, but it’s not quite home. ’
It never would be either. The sooner it was sold, the better. She had received good news the day before when she met with the solicitor who was handling Bob’s will. Everything was now hers, he told her. And when the figures were presented to her, she was taken aback.
It turned out that Bob’s writing was rather more successful than he ’d led Pat to believe. His latest novel had racked up respectable sales – on top of which, the destruction of their former home had yielded a substantial payment from the insurers. Pat learned that he had not needed to borrow in order to buy the new house, that she now owned it outright. She was, suddenly, quite well off. There was no need to wait for the house to sell, when she could move back to Great Paxford as soon as she liked into a rented property.
‘Well, we’re very glad to have you back in our midst,’ Frances said.
‘And I have an idea for a project,’ Pat said. ‘I was thinking we might take on clothes rationing. ’
The idea of clothing coupons, unexpectedly announced on 1 June, Whit Sunday, had been met with a good deal of grumbling. In a wireless broadcast, the President of the Board of Trade, Oliver Lyttelton, seemed to equate patriotism with being badly dressed. ‘We must learn as civilians to be seen in clothes that are not so smart,’ he said.
Not everyone shared his enthusiasm.
‘Families with growing children will find it more difficult than most, I imagine,’ Pat went on. ‘Perhaps the WI could organise some kind of event in the village hall. We could ask for donations of items people no longer need, or don’t fit – things that still have some wear in them. ’
‘A jumble sale?’ Frances asked, her eyes narrowed.