A Woman's War

by S Block

  ‘Why would people do that?’ asked Isobel.

  ‘I don’t honestly know. Then there are others who are more malicious.’

  ‘But why go to those lengths? We didn’t lie.’

  ‘If you want my honest opinion . . . jealousy.’

  Steph’s brow furrowed. ‘Jealous? Of what? My sleepless nights. Fine. They can have them.’

  ‘Of the attention you’ve received. The way you’ve been celebrated as a hero.’

  ‘I never asked for it. Never wanted it.’

  Sarah nodded, with an air of resignation. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned as a vicar’s wife . . . there is nowt so queer as folk.’

  ‘Do you know who’s saying all this?’ asked Isobel.

  ‘I have my suspicions, but it’s not for me to speculate.’

  Steph looked at Sarah. ‘Gwen Talbot, by any chance?’

  Sarah looked at Steph, and in her determination not to give anything away, managed to give away that she believed Steph had guessed entirely correctly.

  Half an hour later Steph was rapping hard on Gwen Talbot’s front door. She ignored the rain that had soaked her from the farm, and stared at the door with a face like thunder. A dog began barking on the other side. Sarah had sensed Steph might be spurred into some form of action by bringing the gossip to Steph’s attention, but hadn’t anticipated action would happen immediately. She had offered to mediate, but Steph had turned her down on the grounds that she had always fought her own battles, and wasn’t about to stop now. She felt deeply offended that anyone could suggest her family was profiting from the German pilot’s death.

  Steph’s mind had been racing all the way across from the farm, churning over everything she was going to say to Gwen Talbot; each iteration gaining in ferocity, her anger like a small tornado inside her head, gathering speed and fury.

  Finally, the door opened and Steph found herself face to face with Gwen Talbot. Gwen looked momentarily shocked as she registered who was facing her.

  ‘Something I can do for you, Steph?’ said Gwen, trying to sound as if Steph’s presence on her doorstep was neither unusual nor unexpected.

  Steph looked at Gwen, smaller and thinner in her housecoat than she appeared at WI meetings or on the High Street, where she usually saw her in coat and hat.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Gwen, but I’ve been told there’s gossip about me going around the village.’

  Gwen Talbot looked blankly at Steph. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘You keep your ear to the ground, so I thought if anyone knows about it, it’d be you.’ Steph looked hard at Gwen, daring her to disagree. ‘About me and my lad and the German?’ Steph said.

  ‘I’ve heard bits and pieces, here and there . . .’ she said, unwilling to commit herself further.

  Steph recalled how the police officer had gently questioned her about the shooting when he came to the farm. Not jumping right in, but holding off, letting her get comfortable, and then pressing her harder and harder for every last detail.

  ‘About who shot him? The pilot.’

  Gwen shrugged. ‘Something like that.’

  Steph nodded, taking her time, letting Gwen see that she wasn’t going to be rushed or chased away until she’d got what she came for.

  ‘And apparently . . . about a reward we were supposed to have got for what happened?’

  Gwen Talbot shifted uneasily from one foot to the next.

  ‘Is it true?’ Gwen asked.

  Steph couldn’t believe her ears. ‘How could you think it’s true, Gwen? Even if there was a reward offered, how could you imagine I’d take blood money like that?’

  Gwen Talbot looked at Steph for a few moments. ‘Some would. Money is money, Steph. You could say you deserve it.’

  ‘Whatever you read in the paper, or heard on the wireless, that’s the truth of it. Whoever’s spreading different stories is not only a bloody idiot, they’re a bloody liar. Next time you see whoever told you this, tell them from me they’d best stop or I won’t be responsible for the consequences.’

  Gwen bridled. ‘Is that a threat?’

  Steph looked at Gwen calmly and nodded slowly.

  ‘Anyone doubts me would do well to remember what I’ve done to protect my son. I won’t have him dragged through the mud for the entertainment of tattlers with nothing better to do than spread manure. There’s a bloody war on. We should be sticking together not chopping ourselves up, doing Hitler’s work.’

  Gwen Talbot looked at Steph and sheepishly nodded.

  ‘Tell whoever’s spreading this muck to stop. From now.’

  Steph walked away from the Talbot house knowing Gwen was watching her from the front door; knowing Gwen knew that she knew it was almost certainly Gwen who was the source of the gossip, spreading it as malevolently as she could: because Gwen Talbot seemed constantly on the lookout for any disparity between what she and her family had and what others had.

  The rain had eased. As Steph walked along the wet road she opened her arms to allow the stiff wind to dry out her coat. By the time she arrived back at the farm it was bone dry.

  When Steph entered the farmhouse, she was met by an ashen-faced Stan, sitting at the kitchen table opposite Stanley, looking sheepish. They had been waiting for her. They watched as Steph hung up her coat and took off her boots, before joining them at the kitchen table.

  ‘What’s all this?’ she asked matter-of-factly, looking from one to the other, sensing tension between them. ‘What’s happened?’

  Stanley looked to his dad for guidance.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ Stan said quietly. ‘You’re a man now, apparently.’

  Steph looked at Stanley. ‘Tell me what?’ she asked.

  Stanley looked at his mother and cleared his throat. Then swallowed hard, and took a deep breath.

  ‘I’ve signed up,’ he said. And then, as if his mother might not know what ‘signing up’ meant, added, ‘For the army.’

  Steph looked at her son for what felt like an age. She felt her eyes blink once, twice, three times. Stanley looked at her.

  ‘Steph?’ said Stan.

  ‘Mam?’ said Stanley, concerned.

  For a fragment of a moment the face of the dead German pilot superimposed itself in her mind over Stanley’s, before disappearing.

  She heard Stan’s chair scrape backwards as he stood up with concern.

  She saw her husband’s mouth open and close as he motioned towards her.

  But suddenly, the supporting strength in her legs vanished, and Steph felt them buckle beneath her.

  The sight of Stanley staring at her was the last thing Steph saw before she fell to the ground and blacked out.

  Chapter 33

  ‘ERICA?’

  Erica snapped open her eyes at the sound of her name and looked around the large table in Frances Barden’s dining room that was currently hosting a WI committee meeting. She had fallen asleep in the middle of the meeting, albeit momentarily.

  After taking apologies for absentees the meeting moved briskly through basic admin to discussing the success of Laura’s Christmas party in the village hall.

  Frances could barely contain her delight at how well it had gone.

  ‘I have received so many notes and warm words thanking us for putting on the event, with many expressing the hope it could be staged again this year – if possible in perpetuity. I don’t see why not. Any objections?’

  The women around the table shook their heads.

  ‘Then let’s propose to make it an annual event, and send Laura a letter of thanks for her initiative and hard work from the committee, with some flowers. It’s a shame she isn’t here today to hear how impressed we all are.’

  It was at that point the other committee members turned instinctively towards Erica as Laura’s mother, expecting to see her beaming with pride; only to see that she appeared to have nodded off.

  ‘I usually have to chaunter on for at least twenty minutes before someone drops off,’ France
s whispered, good-naturedly. ‘Either I’m growing more boring, or—’

  Joyce coughed diplomatically, and softly said, ‘Erica?’ causing Erica’s eyes to re-open.

  ‘I am so sorry!’ Erica said. ‘I’ve really no idea what came over me.’

  ‘How well have you been sleeping since Will’s funeral?’ asked Alison.

  It surprised none present to learn that Will’s death would have had a profound effect on Erica’s sleeping pattern – either due to grief keeping her awake, or because her role as Will’s chief carer in the months before his death had left her sleep-deprived, and she was now overwhelmed by exhaustion. However, neither of these were the sole cause of her current bout of narcolepsy.

  ‘This is Laura’s fault.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Pat.

  ‘Before he died, Will encouraged Laura to consider becoming a doctor.’

  ‘Oh, what an excellent idea!’ said Frances. ‘I was once told I would make an excellent doctor.’

  ‘Yes, but this isn’t about you, Frances,’ chided her younger sister gently. ‘You were saying, Erica?’

  ‘Well . . . Laura took him at his word and considered the idea very seriously, and decided she would like to try for medical school. We can only afford it if she gains a scholarship, so she’s been working her socks off morning, noon, and night with revision. I’ve been providing the poor girl with meals, but also tea and sandwiches, biscuits and whatever’s necessary around the clock to keep her energy levels up. I’m also sitting with her in her room for hours on end, testing her, and helping her get to grips with Chemistry – which can be a beast of a subject.’

  ‘Having a pharmacist for a mother must help?’ asked Joyce.

  ‘I had a natural aptitude. I don’t think Laura’s inherited it. She has far more flair for Biology and Physics. It’s not an insurmountable task, but it does require a great deal of time and energy – for both of us.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll get it – the scholarship?’ Frances asked.

  ‘It won’t be for the want of trying. And she’s certainly taking it very seriously. But even if her Chemistry was better, I honestly feel she’s left it too late to put on enough of a spurt. One can’t blag the sciences. That said . . . the lesson will be a good one if she doesn’t get it.’

  As soon as she finished the sentence Erica yawned. The other women around the table suddenly felt the urge to follow suit, and covered their mouths with their hands to stifle their own yawns.

  ‘It will make her more realistic – either about her aptitude for medicine, or how much work it will take.’

  ‘But aren’t you tempted to stop her wasting her time, if you consider that to be the case,’ asked Teresa. ‘From my own experience, you want a child to try their best at everything they do. But that has to be weighed against the likelihood of them eventually succeeding or failing. Learning how to fail and try again is, of course, a valuable lesson all children should learn. But that’s a markedly different proposition to knowingly watch a child set themselves up for an inevitable and tremendous disappointment.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s complicated by the fact it was her father’s suggestion. Because it’s so inextricably bound up with Will, I fear there’s no stopping her running herself into the ground in pursuit of something she may well be ultimately unable to achieve. But . . . I’ll be there every step of the way. And to help her back on her feet when the time comes.’

  ‘Just as you were over that ghastly business with the Wing Commander Bowers,’ said Joyce.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Erica, not wishing to re-open that can of worms. ‘What with that, the war, and Will . . . the poor girl’s been blown off-course over the past twelve months.’

  The meeting continued through tea and cake, as they discussed the rota for their trekker initiatives, and the specific issue of some women pulling their weight more than others.

  ‘For example,’ said Sarah, ‘you, Alison undertake far more shifts than anyone else.’

  Alison smiled modestly. ‘But I really don’t mind. Since Teresa moved out I’ve missed the company.’

  ‘And you’ve met some very nice people . . .’ Teresa said, smiling.

  ‘Yes. I’ve found Liverpudlians tend to be very nice people,’ said Alison.

  ‘Any in particular you’d like to tell us about? I won’t include any names in the minutes,’ Teresa said, arching her eyebrows mischievously.

  ‘If you’re alluding to Mr Smith, he’s been very helpful.’

  The other women looked at Alison in silence for a few moments, and then burst out laughing. Alison watched them sternly for a few moments.

  ‘Honest to God, what is the matter with you? He’s brought a lot of people to us – that’s what I meant. That’s all I meant.’

  Frances was the first to control herself and nodded in agreement with Alison’s explanation.

  ‘He has, he has. Lots of people. Though almost exclusively when you’re on shift.’

  ‘Can we move on?’ asked Alison, eager to push the meeting beyond her personal life.

  ‘Of course. The point I was trying to make is that we need to balance out the rota so that everyone does their fair share. However much you may not mind doing as many shifts as you do, Alison—’

  ‘John doesn’t mind you doing as many as you do . . .’ chipped in Teresa, unable to let the opportunity for further teasing pass entirely.

  ‘Teresa!’ Alison’s voice clearly indicated she had had enough.

  Teresa looked chastened. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s the old story,’ Frances continued. ‘People assume that those who undertake more than their share of work do so because they like it.’

  ‘But I do,’ Alison said.

  ‘Yes, but then they think they don’t have to do anything. And that carries over to the next activity. Do you see?’

  ‘You’re incentivising others to do less,’ said Sarah. ‘It’s not what the WI is about.’

  Alison agreed to rein in her shifts while Frances would nudge slackers to do their bit. Eventually, the meeting arrived at ‘any other business’ at the end of the agenda. Pat raised her hand and everyone turned to her and waited to hear what she had to say.

  ‘You all should be the first to know. I’m having to resign as Branch Secretary for a few months while Bob and I move into our new house.’

  Sarah was keen to know about the house. ‘Is it in a village?’

  ‘Not really. It’s about a mile outside Buwardsley. In the countryside to give Bob the peace he needs to work.’

  ‘Lot of noisy animals in the countryside, Pat,’ said Alison with a smile.

  ‘But not much army traffic. Or livestock. It’s at the edge of a wood, so he can take walks and cogitate.’

  ‘It sounds positively pastoral,’ said Frances. ‘Perhaps we should all move there!’

  Pat smiled.

  ‘Won’t you miss Great Paxford?’ asked Frances.

  ‘I’m sure I shall to begin with. But the surrounding area is beautiful, and I can always get the bus in when I want. Or cycle.’

  ‘And shopping?’ asked Sarah. ‘You can’t just pop down to the High Street.’

  Pat smiled patiently at her concern. ‘Bob’s suggested we plan for a weekly shop on the bus, and develop the garden for most of the veg we’ll need.’

  ‘Will you cycle to the WI and telephone exchange?’ asked Erica.

  ‘I don’t see why not? Though I might have to consider giving up my job at the exchange. We’ll have to see,’ Pat replied.

  ‘You can’t not come to the WI,’ said Erica. ‘You’ll need it even more.’

  ‘I’ll get used to cycling more, I’m sure. And when the war’s over we’ll run a small car of some kind.’

  Miriam, Joyce, Teresa, and Alison listened with a completely open mind, as they were the only ones who were oblivious to Bob’s ill-treatment of Pat. However, Frances, Sarah, and Erica exchanged concerned glances with one another as they processed the details.
For it seemed that not only was the new house designed to enlarge Bob’s living and working area, with a bespoke study and spacious living room, it also seemed intended to consign Pat around the clock to a large kitchen and utility/laundry room, with a garden in which she would grow fruit and vegetables for Bob’s table.

  After the meeting came to its natural conclusion Pat waited until Miriam, Joyce, Teresa, and Alison had left before approaching the others, who were talking quietly among themselves while glancing at Pat with a concerned air.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, ladies,’ she said softly, grabbing the bull by the horns.

  ‘Can you blame us?’ said Frances.

  ‘All I can tell you is that Bob has – something’s changed in him. Whether it’s the success of his book, or coming back from covering Dunkirk and realising life’s too short to carry on behaving the way he has. But he’s different.’

  Sarah touched Pat’s arm affectionately. ‘We simply want the best for you.’

  ‘The three of you have been the greatest friends I could ever wish for. But this move will be good for us. I’ve really come to believe it.’

  They watched Pat leave to catch up and walk home with Joyce. They stood in silence for a few moments.

  ‘Will once had a patient,’ Erica began, ‘a woman who came to him on and off over the years with cuts and bruises. A broken rib once. Broken collarbone. He knew what was going on. He tried to get her to talk to him about it, but she always covered up. One nonsensical excuse after another, for ten years until they eventually moved away. I remember asking him about it. He felt helpless. He’d seen it in other patients. He could treat the injuries but never the cause. The cause remained locked within the minds of the men who treated their wives like that.’

  ‘But . . . that wasn’t during war time,’ said Frances. ‘So perhaps Bob’s experience at Dunkirk really has had a profound effect on him.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Sarah. ‘I so want it to be true.’

  Erica desperately wanted to tell the Barden sisters about Pat’s relationship with Marek so that she wasn’t the only one besides Pat who carried the secret knowledge of Pat’s affair, and would be able to discuss it openly. But she resisted the urge.