The War Widow

by Lorna Gray

  I hated this. I’ve mentioned before the incessant pattern of Gregory’s attentions and the sense of being steered by the implication my dissent meant I was in the wrong; a disappointment and a fool. This was like that except that I never let Gregory get this close. I snapped out wildly, repulsed, “Did you even ask him about the photograph?”

  I read the answer in Adam’s eyes. I said more reasonably, “Of course you did.” Then, raw as the truth sank in, “And naturally you believed him?”

  Meaning, I think, why couldn’t you choose to believe me instead?

  He didn’t have an answer. At least not one that didn’t invoke my gender; because the male sounded calm and reasonable so the female was therefore wrong. There was movement high above on the stairs. It made me flinch and Adam’s hand tighten in turn. I supposed Jim wanted this finished before Clarke arrived and it degenerated into yet another chaotic attempt to force me into that car.

  “Adam, please don’t make me …” I faltered and with an effort pulled myself back together. He wasn’t making me do anything. I chose to stand here debating the issue with him when I should be making the scene that would end this. First I said more surely, “Why did you have to betray me to them?”

  “You call this betrayal? I—” Adam checked himself. Then with a considerable effort he enquired calmly, “You heard our discussion just now?”

  “I heard.”

  He felt the change in me. The switch into decisiveness. A fleeting sharpness passed across his face. There was the briefest turn of his head towards Jim, though his attention never left me. Guilt. Doubt. There was something rather too much like defiance. His mouth hardened as he said persuasively, “It’s not what you think. They’re trying to help you.”

  Then his expression changed. It was like he’d abruptly abandoned the pretence of being what they thought he should be and did what he probably ought to have done all along. He became only himself instead. He added more swiftly, privately, “I’ll be there. I’ll help you.”

  He completed the transformation by cautiously easing his right hand from my grip and lifting it towards my cheek.

  It all happened in a heartbeat. One minute I was standing there, numb except for the torture of clinging to him even though I wanted to break away, in the next there were footsteps on the stairs; two sets coming down the last flight at a run. The drift of his hand towards my cheek was given uncertainly, like a man playing an unfamiliar part. The gesture was real enough but it was done falteringly, doubtingly as though he was still half caught in the script Jim had given him. It made the world tilt. Every nerve thrilled like static on a wireless while absolutely nothing else in me moved. This wasn’t the same as his former efforts to get me to go with him quietly. This was something else. This was about him. And need and trust. The worst of it was that when the lightest whisper of Adam’s touch finally connected, it very nearly worked.

  Then I slapped him.

  I’m not sure who was more shocked. His hold on my other hand was dropped sharply and beyond his shoulder I saw Jim Bristol start forwards as if to intervene. Then there really was a glimpse of movement on the stairs and I was wrenching myself away from that darkened gaze stripped to the raw emotion underneath. This, suddenly, was the real man. He was exactly as I had thought. He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t a fool. Reserve was a thin veneer worn to protect the mind that blazed within. He terrified me.

  I turned for the bright freedom of that blessedly open door. Behind I heard Jim swear, violently, and utter a rough, “Leave it, Adam. I’ll go.”

  I was already running.

  ---

  I ran, bags flapping, all the way to the station. The streets in between were a blur. The white smear of the station clock tower seemed more lonely today without the bustle of coal carts about its feet. It was Sunday but the first train was set to depart from the nearest platform and a steady stream of travellers was pouring in from the street. There was also a queue outside the ticket window.

  There were in fact three windows, one for each of the classes of traveller. The First Class line was empty, the Third Class line went around the concourse past the public conveniences and behind the newspaper stand so for the sake of my nerves and my pocket, I picked Second.

  I only had to wait thirty seconds; thirty very long agonising seconds. But then I was ducking my head towards the little square hole, murmuring my order and then turning and hurrying down the length of the tatty old carriages of the eastbound train. On the neighbouring track another train had just drawn in and the noise and mess flooded the station like a blessed screen. I stowed myself in the first vacant seat I found. It overlooked the empty tracks and was furthest from the platform, and my first act was to open the high window. My second was to turn up my coat collar as high as it would go. Then I had nothing left to do but wait.

  About a minute later, Jim Bristol walked past. He didn’t see me; I had picked my seat for a reason and I turned to watch through the long screen of disorderly passengers and dirtied windows as he marched down the platform. He didn’t return. I heard the whistle and the bangs as the guards began to shut the doors so I knew he must be on the train. My knuckles turned white where they were gripping the strap of my handbag.

  The guard walked past on the platform edge, moving to fasten us in. Behind, I heard the rattle of the connecting door between carriages as it opened and was firmly shut. I didn’t turn round; I didn’t want to. With my face to the window and the stiff high collar screening at least some of my features, this had to be enough to disguise me. The hairs on the back of my neck told a different story. I could sense him moving closer down the carriage, examining each of the travellers in turn, just as he had done in the previous carriage and the one before that. I caught sight of my eyes reflected in the grimy glass. They were wide and scared, and undeniably mine.

  In a flash I was out of my seat and dragging my bags behind me. My case caught on the knees of my neighbour but his protest was lost as the guard climbed into the carriage and gave his whistle its final blast. He reached to pull the door closed as the train gave a shudder and began to creep into motion. Behind was a blur. Someone was barging his way through the remaining passengers and, without even a pause for thought, I thrust the guard’s arm aside, ignored the man’s startled cry and the other’s shout of my name and stepped out onto the rapidly retreating platform.

  For the second time that morning I very nearly lost a shoe. But then I heard the carriage door slam shut conclusively, and my balance recovered and I was scurrying down the platform as the train and its reluctant passenger were borne away inland without me.

  A few seconds more and the concept of escape changed again. A distinctive pair of pinstriped trousers thundered past only to stop barely yards away and curse furiously at the lately departed train. Then for good measure Clarke cursed my name too and ran past again to the ticket office. He didn’t see me there, beige coat merging seamlessly with the stonework. He was too busy interrogating the occupants of the little windows. It hadn’t been for nothing that I had only bought a single ticket to Birmingham. I had meant to change trains at that vast city station, safe in the knowledge that my onwards route would have been very nearly untraceable from there.

  Unfortunately, since I’d failed to keep my place on the train, I should have been immediately searching the platform behind me. There the second man was, stalking me from the far side of a porter’s trolley.

  Chapter 17

  Clarke’s fellow was a man named Reed judging by the sharp invective that followed me as I dashed for the exit. Reed had made a snatch for my arm and it missed by a cat’s whisker.

  I went across the road outside without so much as a glance for traffic. I felt the smack of air as a car rushed past. It must have held them for a good few seconds and it was long enough for me to turn the corner and make use of the scattering of Sunday people. I turned left up the main street past a number of securely shuttered shop fronts and then I was darting from one pavement to the other to ha
mmer on the door of the first place I could think of. I knocked again. Desperately. Clarke and Reed must have read the sign above me because they had faltered. Behind the heavy wooden door there was a tramp of feet, a rattle of many keys and finally someone sluggishly turned the lock. I stumbled in over the threshold into the police station.

  Detective Inspector Griffiths really did sleep there. His moustache was uncombed and his shirt looked greasy about the collar. I’m not entirely sure he thought much of my appearance either, particularly as it brought with it a highly undesirable sense of urgency. Under his arm was a newspaper and a sandwich.

  “Miss Ward,” he said and smiled. Someone was shouting about breakfast in the cells at the back of the building – either the fellow hadn’t had any yet or what he’d had wasn’t good enough. I sympathised. That single biscuit I’d had in the dead of night hadn’t gone very far. Whereas the detective’s infuriatingly, tantalisingly well-filled sandwich accompanied us into the interview room.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Inspector Griffiths said pleasantly and ushered me towards a chair. “What can we do for you?”

  I stared at him uselessly. I hadn’t really intended to throw myself into this sanctuary. I gathered myself to haltingly tell the policeman everything I would have told Adam and Mary, only it sounded even stranger without the gloss of friendship. I told him about the accident and the journey here and the tireless perseverance with which these people had pursued me in the past few days. I gave the inspector their names, Clarke and Reed, and also Jim’s. That long, forlorn face watched me sagely. He was so good at the act, it was hard to be sure that he was really listening.

  Perhaps I’d done him an injustice. The moustache twitched as I finished; his long fingers remained entwined on the tabletop. Then he asked me to confirm that these men were outside now.

  “Clarke and Reed are, yes.”

  I was suddenly hopeful in spite of everything. I watched as he climbed to his feet. He stood there, hand jiggling the coins in his trouser pocket, like he was steeling himself for the confrontation. Then he gave me a last long assessing look and left the room. I suppose he didn’t necessarily get much practice at making arrests. I had an overwhelming urge to give him an encouraging word, but I didn’t of course.

  He returned after about twenty minutes, looking pretty much the same as before but this time clutching a document under one arm.

  “Well?” I demanded eagerly. “Did you find them?” It was almost too much to hope that the paper in his hands contained a confession. By way of reply, one long-fingered hand slid the document across the tabletop towards me.

  It was a folder and it was titled ‘Mrs K C Williams’.

  It was then that I’d noticed what had been out of kilter all this time. As he’d welcomed me he’d said Miss Ward.

  “I must say,” he remarked, taking his seat, “we were quite surprised when we put two and two together. You really did have us convinced with this whole charade. Did it amuse you to pretend to be his wife?” He took an enormous bite from his sandwich. I could hear him chewing and the gulp as he swallowed the mass.

  “But …” I was staring at him. “But I was his wife.”

  “Yes, Mrs Williams. Was.” His moustache quirked to one side. This little emphasis on specifics amused him. The inspector carefully wrapped up the remaining half of his sandwich and set it to one side. He leaned forwards, hands clasped before him on the table. “It was quite a clever act. You actually had me fooled.” He gave a conspiratorial wink. “Your one mistake, you know, was switching back to your maiden name while you were staying here. Miss Ward one minute and then Mrs Williams the next. You really shouldn’t be disappointed that we found you out.”

  It couldn’t be possible. Surely, it couldn’t be possible. I said desperately, “But I really am Mrs Williams. You must know I am. It’s written there, before you. That wasn’t the mistake. I didn’t lie to you. Mrs Williams is still my legal name. My little disguise was in using the name Miss Ward at the hotel and that doesn’t affect you at all. That was just so that I could feel a little safer during my stay.”

  Inspector Griffiths gazed at me steadily. He managed to communicate a whole wealth of feeling in that stare. Disbelief, condescension and a particularly patronising touch of enduring patience.

  It prompted me to add haplessly, “And it’s not really a lie to use that name either. I do have a legal right to both names after all. I’ve been experimenting with using Miss Ward a little lately, for a couple or months or so before this trip to Aberystwyth. It’s a very new idea I had. Miss Ward is on my ration book. I changed it in a tentative attempt to really come to terms with the divorce, you know?”

  It was the wrong thing to say. If his habit of sleeping at his desk had come about because his wife had thrown him out, he was going to be the last man to be reasonable now. Instead, he waited for me to reveal what further lies I wished to peddle on this visit. I hadn’t got any so instead he tipped his head towards the document before me.

  Helplessly, I flattened out the card folder. Within it were three sheets of paper and the first was dated two days ago; Friday. It bore a handwritten note forwarding the contents with all due respects from the Lancaster constabulary for his attention. The next page was a typescript report from the officers who had performed the interview at my hospital bed. It summarised my encounter with the bus and the hospital’s decision to defer psychiatric testing, and it concluded with the judgement that the policemen saw no reason to dispute the doctors’ findings. The doctors believed that I had suffered what was dubbed a brief ‘delusional state’ as a result of the acute emotional distress brought on by Mr R Williams’ sudden demise. There was, however, the caution that a pre-existing undiagnosed mental disorder might subsequently prove to have been a contributory factor.

  According to the final sheet, headed paper from the hospital itself, any recurrence of the delusion must necessitate immediate admission to a specialist ward. In which case there was, it suggested, indication for treatment with the electric shock.

  I set the report down with an unsteady hand and lifted my head. It was then that I knew I would never escape this. One way or another I was really going to have to learn that somewhere along the line a man would always have the will to make me become whatever he thought I should be. Mad, cowed, stupid or weak. In some ways it didn’t matter a jot if it was Clarke or Reed or Jim or the doctors, or even Rhys. I’d told Mary that I didn’t believe every encounter with the other sex must always come down to a play for power. But there was almost no point in fighting it any more. Almost.

  Inspector Griffiths had gathered the pages back together and now he smiled at me through his moustache. “Well?” he encouraged. “Anything to add?”

  I said nothing.

  He told me, “This information came in the post yesterday, just after you and I spoke.” He leant forwards and rested his elbows on the table, jabbing a long finger for emphasis at the folder before him. “I have my own theory about you. Would you like to hear it? Is that a nod? Yes?”

  I gave him the appropriate glimmer of agreement.

  “Well,” he said, “I have an idea that the lonely and impressionable Miss Ward—”

  “Mrs Williams,” I corrected numbly.

  “—Mrs Williams, had a bit of a shock when her ex-husband suddenly died, and it went to her head. She came to this town to say her farewells and instead got a bit scared and a bit panicked and although she didn’t mean to cause any trouble when she began talking about the war and claiming the sympathy due to a grieving spouse, the story got out of hand and now she’s sitting in my interview room wondering if she’s about to be arrested for fraud, theft and wasting police time.”

  His tone was suddenly very severe indeed. I had my head down, but I could feel his gaze on me across the table. “Well?” he demanded.

  “Sorry,” I finally mumbled. I managed to lift my eyes. He was watching me very coldly. I gave up; I gave up on all of it and seized this small thread of a
lifeline with all the feminine simplicity I could muster. “I’m so sorry, Inspector, I truly am. I was upset and I have been very scared; and I suppose it made me come over a bit silly just now. I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble, I really didn’t. I know I shouldn’t have said all that about those two men and disturbed your meal and … everything. I know you have better things to do with your time than worry about this sort of thing.” I reached into my various bags and drew out the envelope and placed it on the table before him. “You’d better have the photographs back. I’m afraid I left the camera in the hotel. Am I in a lot of trouble?”

  He was silent for a long time, considering. Then he climbed to his feet. “Yes, Mrs Williams, you are. A divorced wife is not his widow. But luckily for you I am very busy and there’s no need to make a fuss about the … um … loan of Mr Williams’ effects to the wrong person. After all, what harm has it done really?” He retrieved the sandwich, the folder and the evidence of his own mistake in the form of the photographs, and walked to the door. He held it open for me and I needed no second invitation. “So let’s say no more about it, eh? But don’t let me see you here again, otherwise …” He gave an informative waggle of that moustache.

  “I can promise that you won’t,” I said with perfect conviction, and hurried away from him down the corridor to the street door and the glorious freedom of the space outside where two men waited to take me to their car.

  Chapter 18

  In an accident of usefulness Inspector Griffiths must have stepped outside to look, just in case. They didn’t snatch me when I emerged into the quiet disorientation of a November Sunday. They didn’t close in either when I turned downhill and hurried, not back to the station where their car was waiting, but left to the seafront and the darker end of town where the beach met the cliff edge. It was the only route of escape I could think of. I couldn’t hire a car because I had never learned to drive, and besides it was Sunday and the garages were shut. I wouldn’t catch a bus because what with my past history with long waits at bus stops, I wasn’t exactly keen on the idea of standing in line for half an hour while one came. A cab would have been a possibility if one had happened to come by but it didn’t and the rank was, needless to say, outside the station. But there was a path along the cliff top that led to a different station on the Birmingham line and I knew a train was set to call there in roughly two hours.