A Woman's War

by S Block

  In Teresa’s mind, the objects in the room took on an intense presence, as if they too were no longer the humdrum furnishings of humdrum married life, but had a particular resonance for this particular moment. Even the quality of the air, which Teresa could neither see nor smell, took on a richer texture, accentuating the colours emanating from everything around her. The one smell that was apparent to her, seductively so, was Annie’s scent. Not a perfume, because Annie rarely wore it, and certainly not in the house with Teresa and Nick. It was Annie’s natural scent – clean, slightly soapy, mingled with her natural aroma. Teresa closed her eyes and let it envelop her, barely noticing Annie’s hand around her shoulder now slowly, almost imperceptibly move from Teresa’s arm to the hair on the back of her head, which it began to slowly, almost tenderly stroke. Warmth suffused Teresa and she turned to Annie for comfort.

  ‘Your marriage vows never promised that you’d rescind the company of women,’ Annie said. ‘Never promised that you’d rescind your true nature. In terms of “the laws of marriage” you could only be “unfaithful” by sleeping with another man. In which case, this isn’t an act of infidelity, but rather, an act of fidelity to your true self. But in terms of Nick . . . by acting on these feelings you are in fact helping to preserve your marriage rather than see it collapse under unbearable pressure.’

  In the heat of the moment, her body flushed with adrenaline and lust, Teresa believed Annie’s argument made some sense.

  *

  Preparing Annie’s bed in silence and then carefully undressing one another and relishing the sight of each other’s nakedness. Teresa and Annie made love in the young pilot’s bed in the front parlour. When it was over, neither sat up in shame or anger that they had succumbed. Each knew these intimate moments with other women came few and far between in their lives. However they arose, they were to be treasured with every fibre of one’s being for as long as they lasted. Consequences – momentarily at least – be damned as they held each other.

  Annie was the first to eventually speak.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, gently kissing Teresa’s neck.

  ‘You have nothing to apologise for. It takes two to tango.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen two women doing the tango.’

  ‘Well, there’s a first time for everything.’

  They snuggled closer in each other’s arms.

  ‘He hasn’t telephoned,’ said Teresa.

  ‘Then you have nothing to worry about.’

  It was at that moment they heard the sound of an approaching car. Its relevance didn’t immediately register with Annie, but the moment Teresa jumped off the bed, ran to the window, and peeped through the blackout curtains, she understood.

  ‘It’s him!’ Teresa hissed.

  ‘How can you tell in the dark?’

  ‘I recognise the sound of the engine. Oh my God, Annie – shit!’

  Annie’s experience with emergency situations effortlessly kicked in. She was able to make a rapid appraisal of the situation and reach a swift conclusion.

  ‘Go to bed!’ Annie ordered.

  ‘What?’ Teresa was clearly panicking and looked at Annie’s ruffled bed on the sofa, unable to think clearly.

  ‘Not this one. You’re already undressed so stop running around like an idiot, take your clothes, and go upstairs now! Get into your bed, and stay there! Now!’

  Teresa looked at Annie for a few seconds, swallowed hard, nodded, grabbed her clothes and dashed from the room. Annie heard the last of her footsteps pound up the stairs just as Nick opened the front door and came in. The time it took him to take off his cap and coat gave both Annie and Teresa long enough to pull up the blankets and sheets of their respective beds, and go limp like rag dolls in an affectation of fitful sleep.

  Nick silently looked in on the front room. He saw Annie was fast asleep and slowly closed the door.

  Nick stood in the hall and looked at the kitchen, deciding whether or not to tackle whatever it was that Teresa will have cooked for him to have upon his return from the station. He decided against, and wearily began to ascend the same staircase that just seconds earlier Teresa had thundered up as fast as she could go.

  He’s coming! What about supper? He must have eaten at the mess. Close your eyes and get your breathing under control . . .

  Teresa could feel her heart thumping loudly in her chest, like an animal banging against the bars of its cage. She was convinced Nick would hear it on the staircase.

  As he neared the top of the stairs, Nick caught sight of something on the floor, illuminated by a pale shaft of moonlight from the landing window. An item of clothing. A single stocking. He bent slowly and picked it up, recognising it as one of his wife’s. He frowned for a moment, as Teresa was usually so fastidious about tidiness.

  Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm . . . deep breaths, don’t give him any reason to do anything except come to bed and go to sleep.

  Teresa lay with her back to the door with her eyes closed, and listened as Nick washed and brushed his teeth before coming into the bedroom, undressing, and joining her in bed.

  Teresa felt Nick slip under the sheets and gently wrap his arms around her and pull in close. He affectionately kissed the back of her neck, with no expectation of anything more.

  ‘You didn’t call,’ Teresa asked sleepily, perfectly acting the role of wife-roused-from-slumber-by-husband-just-returned-from-work.

  ‘Didn’t need to. A wonderfully dull night. Luftwaffe grounded. Praise be to thick cloud over northern Europe . . .’

  As Nick drifted into sleep, Teresa lay wondering about Annie downstairs. The glow of sexual satisfaction had not been entirely snuffed out by Nick’s return, its embers still warming her as the first flickers of guilt began to make their presence felt in the pit of Teresa’s stomach.

  ‘By the way,’ Nick said sleepily, momentarily rising back into consciousness. ‘You dropped a stocking on the stairs . . .’

  Teresa felt her heart jump at the mention of what could only be described as her first slip-up. She waited a moment until she was sure she had control of her voice before replying.

  ‘Did I?’ she said, trying to drain her tone of all care, as if she had barely registered Nick’s observation.

  ‘Not like you, darling . . .’ he mumbled, before falling back into unconsciousness, his warm breath softly billowing across her cheek.

  Teresa lay in the dark, now with a man’s arms wrapped around her.

  Not like me. What is like me? When was the last time I was like me? I’m losing all sense of who that is.

  After a few minutes Teresa felt constrained by Nick’s loving embrace. She tried to slowly free herself without waking him. She was unable to do so, and lay resigned to spending the night in Nick’s arms. Her nightdress felt clammy against her skin.

  In little more than a year, Teresa had fled her hometown for the anonymity of Great Paxford, lost her lover, Connie, to a German torpedo as she crossed the Atlantic, got married in panic, had the job she adored taken from her, and was now lying in fear of her life with Nick imploding after sleeping with a young female pilot.

  Without setting a foot on enemy soil, the war was nevertheless taking a heavy toll on her.

  Chapter 36

  ‘BOB?’

  Pat was trying to get her husband’s attention. It was their final breakfast in Joyce’s house before they were moving into their own, later that day. Bob was reading the morning paper, engrossed in the latest news of the war. He didn’t appear to have heard Pat call his name.

  ‘Bob?’

  He heard his name the second time, and looked up at his wife without any hint of the irritation that would have characterised his face at innumerable breakfasts in the past.

  ‘The Australians have captured forty-five thousand Italian troops at Bardia,’ he said. ‘Forty-five thousand! Can you imagine that?’

  ‘Bardia?’

  ‘Eastern Libya. Next stop, Tobruk.’


  ‘Is that good?’

  ‘It’s a start. If nothing else it shows the Allies can be a force to be reckoned with. Albeit against the Italians. Nevertheless, gives us a foothold in North Africa.’

  Pat decided she could read the newspaper for herself later.

  ‘Bob, I know it’s none of my business. I only ask because we appear to have met the asking price of the new house without having to go to the bank. I’ve been wondering if we were now in a position of relative comfort?’

  She watched as Bob reached out for his teacup and carefully tipped a mouthful of tea past his lips, swallowed it back, and looked steadily at Pat.

  ‘I would say so. Relatively, yes.’

  ‘From the book?’

  ‘From the book, and the advance for the next one.’

  ‘I see . . .’ said Pat. ‘But we’re not so comfortable that you no longer have to work?’

  ‘No. But we are sufficiently comfortable that you no longer need to work at the telephone exchange.’

  ‘I know we’ve touched on this briefly when we first talked about moving. You know how much I like my time at the exchange. It gets me out, allows me to meet my friends, gives me something to do that makes me feel useful.’

  ‘You don’t imagine there will be plenty to do in the new house to keep you occupied?’

  Pat hesitated for a few moments. Coming from ‘Old Bob’ she would have considered such a question a trap.

  For, if she were to say no, she didn’t think there would be enough to do to keep her entirely occupied in the new house, Old Bob would have taken it as a sign of ingratitude; and would have displayed his displeasure accordingly.

  If she were to say, yes, of course there would be enough to do in the new house to keep her fully occupied, Pat will have talked herself out of her job at the exchange. She decided to hedge her bets and observe Bob’s response.

  ‘I’m sure there will be plenty to do in the new house, but perhaps we can wait and see if it’s likely to take up all my time before I give up the exchange.’

  ‘It’s considerably larger than our old house,’ said Bob calmly.

  ‘I know,’ Pat replied. ‘I was only telling the women on the committee the other day.’

  ‘A lot more to keep clean. Not to be underestimated.’

  ‘I’m not underestimating it, Bob. Not for a moment. But until we’re in and I have a clear idea about what’s involved, it’s impossible to make a decision, don’t you think?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Bob, taking another mouthful of tea. ‘Though I see it as akin to the Forth bridge.’

  ‘The Forth bridge?’ asked Pat, not understanding what he meant. ‘In what way?’

  ‘It takes so long to paint that by the time it’s finished the painters are ready to start again.’

  Pat looked at Bob for any hint of amusement or malice on his face, but saw neither.

  I know he thinks it will probably take me a long time to clean it, but he doesn’t know how efficient I can be. I can’t recall him ever cleaning anything. He isn’t the best judge. I’m sure I can manage to keep the house clean and make time to undertake shifts at the exchange.

  ‘Once everything’s had a thorough clean it should be relatively easy to keep the house in good order.’

  ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘I’m expecting a lot of distinguished visitors. Don’t want to let the side down.’

  Pat wasn’t sure she had heard right. ‘Did you say, distinguished visitors?’

  Bob nodded.

  ‘Who exactly do you mean?’

  ‘Once we have a place of our own again I hope to take my place within the literary world of the north-west. I’m already being asked to give readings and talks.’

  ‘Are you? I didn’t know that.’

  Bob smiled with pride. ‘I think, first off, I’ll host a soiree, and invite local literary notables. Make a bit of a splash and see what the ripples bring. This is all coming together at just the right time. I never thought I’d say it, but the Spitfire that destroyed our old house did us a huge favour.’

  ‘In what way?’

  For Pat, the Spitfire crash that had destroyed both her home and the Campbells’ had been nothing short of a disaster.

  ‘It compelled us to audit our life,’ Bob said.

  Pat wasn’t entirely sure what he meant. She had seen Bob reflect upon his life over the past few months, deciding that he wanted to reset his relationship with her.

  At that moment, Joyce returned from the kitchen with a fresh bowl of golden, shining scrambled eggs, and a large plate of toast.

  ‘More eggs for you. And there’s a little bit more black pudding should you want it,’ Joyce declared.

  ‘Can’t thank you enough, Mrs C,’ said Bob.

  ‘I want to send you off on a high note, with the fondest memories of your time here.’

  Joyce sat at the table and took Bob’s left hand in her right hand and Pat’s right hand in her left, and looked earnestly from one to the other.

  ‘Words cannot express how much I have enjoyed having you here these past few months. Well, Mr Simms, perhaps your words could express it, but mine are sadly lacking. I have always found winter the most miserable season. But sharing the cold, dark, and damp nights with the two of you has helped me through it no end. Playing cards. Talking literature. Listening to the wireless together. I have grown used to your company, and it will take me a long while to acclimatise to its absence.’

  Joyce stood where she had been sitting and raised her teacup in the form of a toast to Pat and Bob.

  ‘My dear Mr and Mrs Simms,’ she said extravagantly, ‘to your future in your new home, and all the success and happiness it will bring!’

  Pat felt moved at the sight of Joyce Cameron toasting her. Bob stood next and raised his own teacup to Joyce.

  ‘To you, Mrs C. A woman of rare generosity and intellect.’

  Pat turned to Joyce and wrapped her arms around the older woman’s small frame, and buried her face in her sweet-smelling hair.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough, Joyce. Without you . . .’

  Pat’s voice trailed off.

  Without you standing between Bob and I, he would almost certainly have resumed his old ways. But your daily presence acted like a buffer between us, a reason for Bob to proceed with caution where I was concerned, giving him a long enough pause in the way he conducted unholy matrimony against me to reflect, and make a significant change.

  ‘Thank you, Joyce. I’ll never forget your kindness. Never.’

  Joyce hugged Pat back with a degree of force that implied just how much she was going to miss their company.

  ‘Good luck, my dear,’ Joyce said. ‘The fearful, interminable typing aside, you are very lucky to have such a man as your husband to buy you such a lovely new home in which to embark on your new life together.’

  Pat stood back from Joyce and looked at her face, each line and wrinkle co-opted into the broad smile across it, while her eyes shone with swelling tears of sadness at their departure.

  ‘I know,’ said Pat. ‘I’m very lucky indeed.’

  She glanced at Bob, who was standing behind Joyce. He smiled at Pat with no side or malice.

  For my own sanity, and for the sake of our future for as long as we are together, I must try and forgive this new Bob for what he’s done to me in the past, and embrace the New Pat I can become as a consequence. At least until Marek returns. Or fails to. Forgive. Forgive. What choice do I have?

  Chapter 37

  THE DAY AFTER Laura sat the exam for a scholarship to medical school, Erica woke before sunrise, as was her custom following Will’s death. It was as if she now had a surfeit of energy that her body tried to expend by waking her increasingly early, giving her enough hours before bed to burn off what she needed before sleep would come once more.

  Following a swift tidy up around the house, the first glow of sunlight in the windows prompted Erica to put the kettle on, then lay the table for breakfast. Erica then poured her
self a steaming cup of coffee, and took it into the front room to drink slowly in Will’s chair, and reflect on the day ahead.

  With Will gone and Myra running the surgery, one day had become almost indistinguishable from the next. A couple of hours in the pharmacy making up prescriptions. Some WI business to attend to. Some shopping. Read the newspaper. Prepare meals. Listen to the news on the wireless.

  Now Laura had sat the scholarship exam and required no more help with revision, Erica’s days were more difficult to fill. Now they could only wait for the exam result. A sense of hiatus consumed Erica. Caught between Will’s death and Laura’s future – whatever that proved to be – Erica frequently found herself looking out of the front window at nothing in particular, for minutes on end. If leaves were blown across the road into hedgerows, she would watch them. If clouds were sailing across the sky, she would watch them. Or crows in the trees opposite. Or a cat creeping across a field, stalking a vole. Or a car or van or lorry rattling past. Erica had turned from a participant in life to an observer of it.

  As she watched the world go by Erica’s mind was nevertheless turning over various ways she would help Laura deal with the ultimate disappointment of not achieving the scholarship she had so determinedly set her heart on just two months before. To say Laura had left it late to go for the scholarship was an understatement. Yet Erica had been determined to help her do her utmost, so she could at least tell herself she had given it her very best shot in the time allowing.

  Erica had settled on fashioning a version of support and encouragement that Will would have offered had he been alive. And while Erica might have been tempted to tell Laura ‘there’s always next time’, she knew Will would have omitted just such a prompt, refusing to put any more pressure on his daughter to embark on a repeat attempt to conquer what may well simply be – for her – an insurmountable mountain. Finding the right phrasing was key. It wasn’t made easier by the fact that Laura had become fixated on achieving the scholarship, and had, in Erica’s watchful eyes, set herself up for a crushing disappointment.