A Woman's Courage

by S Block

  ‘Of course, she’s always been somewhat . . . outspoken, shall we say,’ Joyce went on. ‘Quick to judge, not the sort to hold back. If she has an opinion on something, she doesn’t mind letting the world know. ’ She sighed. ‘And, of course, she was changed by the death of her own husband. It was a very sad business. I’ve always been aware of what you might call her shortcomings, and it’s not as if we’ve ever been friends, as such, but to some extent her forthright manner is something I’ve held a grudging respect for in the past. It can be refreshing to know what a person really thinks. Something of a rarity, I find. ’

  Pat wondered if it would have surprised Joyce to know that she once considered her to be overbearing and snobbish. Joyce had always struck her as being so grand, with her elegant clothes and fancy hats. All those feathers! She never thought they had much in common (well, they didn’t). And then the Spitfire destroyed their home and Joyce took them in. Pat was grateful, of course – they’d lost almost everything – but moving in with Joyce would never have been her choice.

  Bob, however, was cock-a-hoop. Straight away, he could see the benefits; not only a means of living cheaply but in the presence of an adoring fan. The arrangement could not have suited him better. Truthfully, seeing Joyce constantly heap praise on Bob turned Pat’s stomach. Mr Simms, this, Mr Simms that! Joyce had always been reminding her how fortunate she was to have such a wonderful husband when nothing could have been further from the truth.

  The one saving grace about the months Pat spent under Joyce’s roof had been that Bob was forced to control his vicious temper. It wouldn’t have done for his landlady to see the man he really was, although once or twice he ’d come close to revealing his true nature. What would Joyce think if Pat told her the truth, that Bob had struck her across the face one evening moments before Joyce arrived home? Bob had entirely pulled the wool over Joyce’s eyes, led her to believe he was so much better than he really was. And the worst of it all was, Pat had helped him.

  Joyce looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m not sure how to put this,’ she began, ‘but Mrs Talbot seems to think you have benefited from your husband’s death – financially, I mean. It was as if she called into question the manner of his death. ’

  ‘What happened was an accident,’ Pat said.

  ‘The most appalling tragedy, terribly hard on you. ’

  Pat concentrated on her now-empty teacup. If only you knew. ‘The truth is, I’m doing the best I can. I’m on my own, I have to get on with things, make the best of life. Isn’t that all any of us can do? For those of us fortunate enough to be alive, isn’t it our duty? If there’s one thing the war has taught us, it’s that life is short, flimsy, easily taken away. We only have to think of the young lives lost to know as much. ’ Pat thought of the pilot in the cockpit of the crashed Spitfire, no more than a boy. She had been first on the scene and the face of the pilot remained vivid in her mind. ‘We can make all the plans we want, but none of us knows what the future holds. It’s now that counts. ’

  Joyce nodded. ‘I know, my dear. You’re quite right. ’

  ‘Bob has gone – that’s the reality. I could spend the rest of my days wearing black and being miserable, hiding away, but it wouldn’t change a thing . . . other than what Mrs Talbot thinks of me. ’

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  ‘He did leave me quite well off, you know,’ Pat said. ‘It turns out his books were selling in quite significant numbers. ’ She frowned. She knew that Gwen Talbot had nursed her husband through a long illness. She ’d brought up her children alone, and there was always a look about her that suggested struggle. It was unlikely she ’d been left well off. ‘Perhaps I should talk to Mrs Talbot,’ Pat said, ‘and see if I can clear the air. ’

  Chapter 21

  ‘H

  OW DID YOU GET on today?’ Alison asked.

  John looked up from what he was doing, patiently chopping vegetables.

  ‘I went all about, asked if there was any work going, said I didn’t mind what I did. Seems there’s nothing. ’ He was making stew and dumplings for tea. Not the kind of dumplings Alison was used to – John’s were light with a hint of nutmeg. The kind of food he ate every day as a boy, mostly with soup. He had learned how to cook by watching his mother, a woman who could turn a few simple ingredients into a pan of hearty food, he said. He resumed chopping, finely dicing an onion.

  ‘What about the butcher’s?’ Alison asked. ‘Bryn’s still resting up and Miriam’s back serving in the shop. They must be short-handed. ’

  ‘I spoke to the son. David, is it?’

  Alison nodded.

  ‘Nice young man. Told me he ’d like nothing better than another pair of hands doing all the lifting and carrying, but their money’s tied up getting the shop next door ready for opening. They can’t afford to take on someone new. ’

  Alison frowned. ‘I was sure they’d have something for you, even for a week or two until Bryn’s back on his feet. ’

  ‘They seem to be managing all right without taking on any help. ’

  ‘What about the pub?’

  ‘Got all the staff they need. ’

  From the village, he told her, he ’d gone to the Farrow farm and spoken to Stan, but it was a similar story to Brindsley and Son. Stan couldn’t afford to pay another wage, he said, even though he could have used an extra pair of hands.

  ‘Don’t be put off,’ Alison said, risking a hand on his arm.

  He kept on chopping for a second or two before freeing himself from her touch to drop a carrot into Elsa’s bowl.

  ‘There are other farms,’ Alison said. ‘Someone might have something. ’

  He gave her a long look. ‘I’m glad I came here. I couldn’t be happier with our arrangement. You know that. ’

  Arrangement. A simple transaction, Alison thought. That’s all it is to him.

  ‘I sense a “but” coming. ’

  ‘But,’ John said, with an attempt at a smile, ‘there might not be any work. ’ He shrugged. ‘We’re in hard times, everyone’s struggling. ’

  ‘I’ll have a word with Frances, see if she can suggest something. And maybe Teresa can ask Nick – there might be work of some kind going at the base. ’

  He turned to face her and placed his hands on her shoulders. Their faces were inches apart, and Alison held her breath. This is it.

  ‘You’re a good woman, Alison Scotlock,’ he said. ‘The best there is. ’

  He gave her shoulders a squeeze, before letting go and turning back to the chopping board.

  *

  John wasn’t happy keeping things from Alison, but it wouldn’t help to tell her everything he ’d been through that day. She ’d have been upset, maybe even wondered whether inviting him into her home was the best thing for either of them. Perhaps coming to a small community, knowing his presence would at the very least cause raised eyebrows, was rash. A solitary black face in a quaint little village. He was used enough to comments and hostility, having to go out of his way to show he was no different to anyone else. Except, of course, he was, in a way that some people, for reasons he couldn’t understand, would always find offensive. It pained him to think that simply by his presence he might in some way tarnish the good name of Alison, a woman with the best heart of anyone he knew.

  At the Black Horse, he had known better than to go into the bar, and had instead waited in the yard at the back until someone appeared. Almost an hour passed, but he knew to be patient. Eventually, a stooped man with thinning red hair, a half-smoked roll-up hanging from his lips, came out, and John had tipped his hat and introduced himself. He was looking for work, he said. Any work. He ’d done all manner of jobs on the docks in Liverpool and was strong, capable of heavy labour. Lifting barrels, anything. The man – the landlord, apparently – dropped the cigarette and crushed it with his heel before spitting on the ground.

  ‘See, this is what you call a respectable establis
hment. Got my good name to think of. My rep-u-tation. ’ Spelling it out, as if for an imbecile. ‘Can’t say it ’d go down well with my regulars if I took on a darkie. ’

  At the Farrow farm, Steph invited him in and made him tea, before directing him to a neighbour who kept livestock. Sheep, pigs. A bigger set-up, she said; he might just be hiring. ‘Bit of a funny bugger, Jim Morton,’ she told him, ‘but you never know. ’

  John felt uneasy at the second place. The farmhouse looked unkempt. Greying nets at the windows, paint peeling off the frames. He hadn’t even got as far as knocking at the door when a man in overalls – Jim Morton, he assumed – appeared from a barn with a shotgun in his hand and threatened to run him off his land. John tried to say that Steph Farrow had sent him, but before he could get the words out the gun was being pointed at him.

  He should have told Alison. She needed to know, in case people started taking out their prejudice on her. When he got home, though, her work was spread out across the table and he hadn’t wanted to distract her. Instead, he sank into an armchair, feet aching from all the walking, as Elsa climbed onto his lap. He ’d watched as Alison did calculations and added to columns of neat figures, the nib of her pen scratchy on the stiff paper of the ledger. Sun streamed in through the open front door and from the garden came a burst of sweet-sounding birdsong. Alison would have been able to identify the bird. She knew those sorts of things.

  He decided to say nothing about the shotgun, or what the stooped old man at the pub had said to him.

  As he made a start on their meal, it occurred to him how simple life would be if they could exist like this within their own peaceful little world, not bother with anyone else. He loved Alison. In an ideal world, a different world, they would be together. Not his landlady, his wife. He had almost kissed her. He ’d wanted to, felt sure it was what she wanted, too. It was there in her eyes, the bluest eyes he ’d ever seen.

  But then he thought of her being subjected to the same kind of abuse and intolerance he lived with every day, and it just didn’t seem fair.

  Other people.

  They were always the problem.

  *

  Alison left him cooking and took Elsa out, stomping away into the woods, sending pigeons scattering into the air. She had almost run from the house, her heart thundering, her mind in turmoil. She took cover among the ancient oaks and leaned against a thick trunk, waiting for her breathing to return to normal.

  She had been so certain. This is it. That look of his when he had faced her. The feel of his hands on her shoulders. He was about to kiss her, she could feel it. And then . . . nothing. Something had changed his mind. Or was she simply seeing what she wanted to see, imagining feelings that weren’t there?

  It was the first time he had touched her. Since moving into the house, he had seemed more determined than ever to maintain a respectful distance at all times, to keep things proper and businesslike between them. He never so much as brushed against her when they were cooking or eating. On one occasion when they’d reached down at the same time to make a fuss of Elsa, he had sprung back.

  But just then, in the kitchen, she had felt as if she couldn’t breathe. For the briefest of moments, she ’d had the oddest sensation that were John to take his hands from her shoulders she would simply float away. Surely, he had been able to tell just by looking at her what she felt for him? George had always claimed to know what she was thinking. ‘I can read you like a book,’ he used to say. And yet he used to say, too, that no one could read minds and that it was wrong of her to expect him to know what was inside her head. ‘Tell me,’ he ’d say. ‘Otherwise, how the devil am I supposed to know?’ Perhaps John was the same. Was she being unfair, expecting him to gauge her feelings and act on them without her having said a word? Or, was he trying to let her know as gently as he could that he was not interested?

  She kicked at the dry earth in frustration as Elsa snuffled about the clearing, following a trail that took her to the base of an enormous ash.

  Perhaps he was waiting for her to make a move, to give him permission to take things further. Wasn’t that what Teresa had said, that a man like John would be wary of overstepping the mark? She had invited him to move into her home as a paying guest, and made it clear from the start that this was to be a formal arrangement. He would never compromise her in any way or risk appearing to take advantage. If she was serious about him, if she really loved him, she was going to have to tell him.

  She would have to find the courage to lay her feelings bare.

  *

  After dinner, they sat for a while with the wireless on low in the background, Alison busy unpicking a cardigan she hadn’t worn for a while, working out how she could fashion it into something for Teresa’s baby. John had offered to help, and had sat next to her while she looped yarn around his hands, creating a loose skein.

  ‘I hope you’re not sorry you decided to swap the big city for a quiet spot like this,’ Alison said at last, breaking the silence.

  John looked surprised. ‘Not a bit. The city’s not what it was. It’s enough to break your heart the way it’s been torn to pieces. I sometimes wonder if it’s ever going to get back on its feet after what it’s gone through. ’

  Alison nodded. ‘All we can do is trust that things will recover, once the war is over. People are capable of great resilience. At least the bombing seems to have eased off. ’

  ‘It hasn’t stopped, though, not yet. Some nights the Luftwaffe come over wanting to cause more destruction. ’

  Alison nodded and took the wool from him, tucking it into the wicker basket at her feet. She began unravelling a sleeve. ‘As long as you have no regrets about leaving. ’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Coming to a village . . . spending your evenings winding wool. ’ She smiled at him. ‘Hardly the most thrilling of pursuits. ’

  He chuckled. ‘I ’d say I’ve had just about enough excitement to last me a lifetime. There’s a lot to be said for peace and quiet. Plenty folk would give their right hand to be able to move away. I count myself lucky to have a lovely home with good company. All thanks to you. ’

  They sat in silence for a while, Alison trying to keep her breathing in check, to muster up the courage to say what she wished to say.

  John held up his hands. ‘Do you want to carry on?’

  Alison bit her lip. No, she did not want to carry on. What she wanted, more than anything, was to talk to him – to properly talk – to take his hands in hers and say what was really on her mind, to make a fool of herself, if need be. After all, what was the worst that could happen? John might say he didn’t feel the same way, might apologise, even though his behaviour had been impeccable.

  At least then she would know. At least she could stop tormenting herself.

  She looked at the cardigan in her lap. Talk to him. But she only said, ‘I’ll leave it at that for now. ’

  ‘I think I might turn in. ’ John smiled. ‘I’m tired after all that walking today. Must be the country air. Can I make you a drink before I go up?’

  Tell him. She shook her head. ‘No, I’m fine, thank you. ’

  *

  She lay on her back in bed, hands folded across her middle, like the stone figure whose tomb lay inside St Mark’s. Sleep would not come. Her mind was too busy, thoughts flying about, refusing to settle. A whiny voice she didn’t recognise (her own? she wondered) demanded to know why she had such trouble speaking her mind.

  She rolled onto her side and pulled the bedclothes over her head, but the voice showed no sign of quietening. She had missed an opportunity earlier. She knew exactly what she wanted to say, and yet when the moment came she had lost her nerve. She would never have believed she was capable of such cowardice. It wasn’t as if she had to make a speech. All she had to say was that she had fallen in love with him. A few words, sufficient to express all that was in her heart.

  She flung back the covers, and pulled herself o
ut of bed. The house was silent, and Elsa would be sleeping under the sideboard as usual. She went softly to the window, glancing out into the night. A tawny owl was calling. Almost at once its mate answered.

  Since she couldn’t sleep, perhaps she should go downstairs and make a drink. She could open up a book, or unravel some more of that blasted cardigan. She went out onto the landing and stepped around the floorboard that creaked.

  Then, at the top of the staircase, she hesitated, one hand on the banister. From downstairs came the sound of the clock ticking in the hall, and her eyes fell on the door of John’s bedroom.

  I’m not young, thought Alison, but nor am I old. I still have time enough to do something more with my life. Provided I find the courage to act.

  She drew in a deep breath and made her way slowly along the landing. She paused outside the room, her breath caught, her heart hammering. Then she eased open the door.

  John was lying there, sleepless as her, propped up against his pillows in the dark. When he saw her, his eyes widened.

  ‘Alison?’

  She said nothing, but she crossed the room, climbed into the bed, and pressed herself into his body, burying her face in his neck.

  He wrapped his arms around her. ‘Do you know how much I’ve wanted you to come to me?’ he whispered. ‘I prayed you would, every night. ’ He turned towards her, and his lips brushed hers. ‘Alison, I’ve loved you for the longest time . . . I just needed to be sure you felt the same, that this was what you wanted. ’

  ‘I didn’t know if you wanted anything more. I thought you might be content with the friendship we have,’ she whispered. ‘And I was too scared to say anything, thinking if I did and I’d got it wrong, I might just spoil everything. ’

  ‘Nothing’s spoiled, it never could be between us. ’ He stroked her hair. ‘As long as you’re sure. ’

  She held onto him, feeling the beat of his heart, tears running down her face. She was utterly certain. None of the doubt that had once tormented her remained. ‘It’s what I want. ’ Her voice was a whisper. ‘More than anything. ’