Lucy found it hard to mouth the words: ‘Welcome home, son.’
Chapter 14
The Aftermath
‘You have to go out and do something, James. You can’t just sit around all day.’
‘But I like it here. It’s quiet.’ His voice was weary. ‘You don’t know how many times I prayed I might sit here and do nothing.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Lucy said sighing. ‘I don’t understand what’s got into you. I only want what’s best for you, but seeing you moping about worries me. You must pull yourself together.’
She waited for James to answer but he seemed preoccupied. She knew he had heard her but he did not reply.
‘I’m going to the village,’ she said. ‘Can I get you anything?’
His eyes, fixed on the empty grate, never shifted. ‘No, I’ll be all right.’
Lucy closed the door quietly as she left.
James heard the click. Then the silence. He was alone and everything was still. He glanced right, then left. His eyes darted around the room. Everything was closing in – shrinking. There was no space to move – no room to walk – to breathe. The doll sitting on the chair opposite was eyeing him, gazing at him with a glassy stare. He looked away – glanced back. Yes, definitely spying on him. From the framed picture on the mantelshelf, another pair of eyes was on him. A girl. A nurse. He knew the face. From the field hospital? He wasn’t sure.
The fire was out. He was glad. It was always safer in the dark. But it was cold and the night would be bitter. He could see a light shining outside. Was it daylight coming through a hole? A window? No, it was a tunnel through the wall. A way to escape. Looking up at the ceiling, the heavy beams loomed threatening. What if the house crumbled? What if the roof timbers collapsed? He’d be crushed. Killed. And no one would find him. He must get out. Get away.
When he was out on the lane, he shook his head and gasped. The outside air was clear and fresh. How strange, he thought. How different. The sky was blue, flecked with fine wafts of white. A sparrow landed in the bird bath and splashed its wings. The gravel crunched under his feet. The sound of marching feet was all too familiar.
He had to walk. He felt he had to go somewhere – but where? Just walk. He knew the track well. Knew every fence and dry-stone wall. Knew every hollow tree which hid a squirrel. Knew every patch of earth which stank of garlic. The tangled hedgerows where the blackberries grew. He knew every rut where, after rain, a stream trickled across the path, and knew the contours of the distant hills which offered sanctuary to the sun.
Inside the gate of Fothergill’s farm, he slowed, his mind remembering. The smell. Decay. Deep litter. Dung. Warm steaming hay. The sound of cows. The spring of soft earth beneath his feet. Thick clover wet after rain. Daisies. Cowslips. Dandelions.
He stopped. How strange, he thought, to see flowers growing on this ground. He reached out his hand to touch.
Before his eyes the flowers faded - disappeared. The earth grew bare. The mud felt wet and warm, sticky like blood. He stopped, looked up and from the corner of his eye he saw it coming, rolling slowly through the sky straight at him.
‘Mortar!’ he screamed, as he dropped to the ground, covered his ears and waited for the bang.
The crow landed on the fence and cawed.
Hunched on his hands and knees, James wept.
Lucy rubbed the loose flour from her hands but the dough was still stuck between her fingers when she opened the front door.
Mr Fothergill was on the doorstep with James standing meekly beside him.
‘I thought I’d better bring the lad home,’ he said.
‘What’s the matter?’
The farmer shook his head. Moisture was glistening in his eyes. ‘Best get the doctor to have a look at him, Mrs Oldfield.’
Lucy was puzzled but took James’s arm and led him into the house.
‘Let me know if I can be of any help,’ the farmer said.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I will.’
The morning of 11 November was misty. But at least it wasn’t raining. At eleven o’clock, Lucy thought of the soldiers marching to memorials throughout Britain. Standing in silent remembrance to commemorate the war, but she had no intention of reminding her son what was special about that day.
While she sat reading, James fitted another piece into his jigsaw. She looked up from her book. How many puzzles was that? She had bought at least two dozen in the last few months – every jigsaw the local shop had had in stock. The shopkeeper had ordered more but was still waiting for them to arrive. It didn’t matter to James how many pieces each puzzle contained or what the pictures were of – rose gardens, stately homes, boats lolling in quiet Cornish harbours, or waves crashing on angry seas. After completing each one he would mix up a dish of flour and water paste, spread it thinly over the puzzle and leave it to set hard. Then he would start on another.
In the front room, Timothy tootled on the piano hammering out unrelated notes. Lucy hadn’t heard the lad come in, but wasn’t surprised as he often wandered into the room without saying anything, especially when Pansy was at work.
As she turned the page, Lucy noticed James had stopped. Without saying a word, he got up from his puzzle and walked to the front room. Lucy was about to ask if there was anything he wanted, but she stopped herself.
As he stood in the doorway, Timothy looked up at him.
‘Can I join you?’ James asked.
‘Yep,’ said Timmy, his fingers still tapping tunelessly, as he slid along the piano stool making room for James to sit beside him.
James hesitated for a moment, looked kindly at the boy, then lifted his hands and rested them on the keys. The ivory was cool.
‘Can you play something?’ Timothy asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said James.
‘Play a Christmas carol and I’ll sing the words. We should practise,’ the boy said enthusiastically. ‘It’ll be Christmas soon and you can come round the village with me and Mum.’ He looked up, ‘Will you come too, Aunt Lucy, when we go carolling?’
From the doorway Lucy smiled at the pair and when James inclined his head and smiled back at her, a tear trickled down her cheek. That single smile told her his battle was over. Her son had finally come home.
Chapter 15
Alice
‘Edward had so many interesting things,’ Lucy said, as she dusted the ebony elephant and placed it back on the glass shelf in the cabinet.
From the floor, where he was sitting cross-legged stacking his jigsaw pictures, James looked up. ‘What am I going to do with these things?’ he said. ‘They can’t be used again.’ He laughed. ‘I made sure of that, didn’t I?’
Lucy grinned. ‘Give them to the chapel for the fête or store them in the attic.’
James shrugged, tied them securely and leaned the bundle against a tea chest which bore a faded Bombay shipping mark. ‘Is there anything in here you want to keep?’
Lucy shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I only wish I had a photograph of Edward. Perhaps Wainwright has one.’ She sighed. ‘Maybe I will write to him and ask.’
‘Are you sure you don’t mind me moving into Edward’s cottage?’
‘Of course not! It’s what he intended. And it belongs to you.’
James grinned. ‘It’s not like I’m moving far away, is it?’
‘It will be nice for you and Alice when she comes to visit,’ Lucy said.
The leather armchair sighed as he sat down on it. ‘It’s strange,’ he said. ‘When I was in France, I used to think of Alice a lot. Most of the men had girlfriends, but I didn’t, so I suppose I thought of Alice as my girl.’ He looked at his mother. ‘But she wasn’t, was she? While she was growing up, she was like my little sister and we were friends, close friends. I never thought of her as anything more than that. But look at her now,’ he said. ‘She scares me a little. She’s grown into a lovely woman. A nurse. She’s independent. And look at me. What can I offer her?’
Lucy scowled
. ‘James! You have money and the cottage. Compared with most men of twenty three you are very lucky.’
‘But is that enough?’
Lucy pushed the key into the clock and wound the spring. ‘She’ll be here very soon, why don’t you ask her?’
After his mother left, James spent half an hour preparing for Alice’s visit. He was excited. Nervous. It was an unusual feeling. He had known Alice since she was a little girl, from the day he had found her on the moors, frozen and afraid. From that time they had played together, talked, confided in each other. Taken long walks and ridden for miles always comfortable in each other’s company. But since the war, he had only seen her briefly on the afternoons she visited her mother, and his memory, of the twelve months when he had been ill, remained vague.
Now things were different. He was fit and well and moving into Edward’s cottage – his cottage – and he was about to entertain her alone. It was a daunting prospect. What would he say to her? What would they do?
For the umpteenth time he went to the door and checked the lane. At last she was there. Walking up the hill, pushing her bicycle.
‘So, this is your new home,’ she said, as he took her coat and followed her into the front room. She stood for a moment looking around. ‘Just as Edward left it.’
James felt guilty. ‘Perhaps I should have bought new furniture. I can afford it.’
‘No’ she protested. ‘It’s very gentlemanly and hardly worn. And,’ she added, ‘it suits you.’
Standing by the fireplace, James watched as Alice wandered around looking at the ornaments, admiring some, examining others, asking about particular ones. A group of miniature soldiers assembled in the china cabinet attracted her attention.
‘Gurkhas!’ he said.
Alice nodded. ‘Can I make a cup of tea?’
James apologized. He should have thought of that.
She insisted. ‘I’ll do it. You sit down.’
After a few minutes, she returned carrying a tray decked with Edward’s Royal Worcester teapot and crockery. James watched as she poured the tea. Her hand was steady, but when she sat down, he thought she looked weary. Pulling off her shoes, she leaned back in the chair.
‘It’s a long ride from the hospital. Are you tired?’ James said.
‘A little,’ she said. ‘Tell me what you have been doing.’
James couldn’t think. What had he done lately? Nothing really. Just odd jobs around the cottages. Things that needed doing. Propped up the stable roof where it collapsed. Bought six new hens. Went to town. Wrote a few letters to the men he had served with – uncertain if the addresses were correct – uncertain if he would get any replies. Pruned the crab-apple tree. That was about it. ‘Not much,’ he said.
‘Have you thought any more about university?’
‘No.’
‘Have you been riding?’
‘No,’ he said quickly, wanting to turn the conversation away from himself. ‘Tell me about the hospital.’
Alice leaned back and talked at length about the hospital itself, the building, the wards, corridors, the other nurses and the shift work. She described the nurses’ quarters and the strict rules and regulations which the girls had to adhere to, but she didn’t speak about herself.
‘When do you get a holiday?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I would like to go away for a holiday. Take my mum and yours, and Timothy – and you.’
‘Where to? And when?’
‘Scarborough. By train,’ he said. ‘Have you ever been there?’
Alice shook her head.
‘Neither have I, but I understand there are some nice hotels overlooking the sea. Imagine staying in a hotel and being waited on.’
‘It would be terribly expensive.’
‘I can afford it,’ James said. ‘And it’s something I’d like to do.’
‘Timmy would love it.’
‘That means you will come?’
Alice thought for a moment. ‘Yes, if I can arrange to get time off.’
‘Does Alice Pugh live here?’
‘No,’ said Lucy wondering who the man standing by the garden gate was. ‘Her mother lives next door,’ Lucy said. ‘But no one’s home today. Can I help?’
He looked disappointed. ‘Just thought I’d call in. I was in the neighbourhood. First time I’ve been round these parts.’
‘Alice doesn’t actually live here,’ Lucy explained. ‘She lives-in at the hospital. She’s a nurse.’
‘Yes, I know. I work there as a porter. It’s her day off today and she told me she usually goes home when she’s got the time. I thought I’d find her here. I wanted to surprise her. Wanted to show her my new transport.’ As he spoke, he stepped back allowing Lucy full view of the new motor bike propped up on its stand. ‘Never mind. Sorry to trouble you, missus.’
‘When I see her, shall I tell her who called?’
‘Aye, say Bertie Bottomley was looking for her. On the other hand,’ he said, pulling the goggles down to the bridge of his nose. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll catch up with her on the ward tomorrow.’
‘You haven’t forgotten about Scarborough, have you?’ James asked casually.
Alice shook her head, but continued reading the newspaper.
He’d asked the same question every time she’d visited during the past month, but on each occasion her answer had been the same – it wasn’t easy to get time off, but she was still trying.
‘Do you have to work?’ James asked bluntly.
Alice looked up.
‘Wouldn’t you prefer to stay at home?’
‘But I’ve got to work! How would I live otherwise? I can’t expect Mum to support me at my age.’
‘But what if I supported you.’ He paused. ‘What if you and I were to get married? You wouldn’t have to work again.’
Alice didn’t answer.
‘I can afford it. I’ve got plenty of money and you can buy whatever you want, clothes, furniture, even a radiogram or a wireless. You must know I would do anything for you, Alice.’
‘I know you would. You’re very kind, James. But Edward’s money – your money – won’t last forever and I don’t want all those things.’
He turned away, but not quickly enough. He knew she had read the disappointment clouding his face.
‘You must give me time to think about it,’ she said. ‘It’s a very good offer.’
When Lucy answered the front door, she was surprised to find John Fothergill standing on the doorstep. It was raining hard.
‘Morning,’ he said, touching his knuckles to his forehead.
‘Mr Fothergill, what can I do for you?’
‘If you don’t mind, I wanted to have a quick word about that field out the back.’
‘Come in out of the rain. I’ll make a nice cup of tea.’
The farmer looked down at his Wellington boots caked in farmyard muck. ‘If it’s no trouble,’ he said, kicking his boots off and following Lucy through to the living room. Offering him a seat at the kitchen table, she put the kettle on to boil. When he sat down, the farmer slid his feet under the chair, but not before Lucy had noticed the large holes in his socks.
‘I see you’ve left the field fallow this year,’ the farmer said.
‘You mean we didn’t plant anything.’
‘That’s right. I took a walk over there yesterday. Some good feed growing!’
Lucy glanced out of the window. The meadow was thick and green, scattered with the tall stems of self-seeded barley. The slender stalks swayed in the still air, as a group of birds were busily investigating the fresh green ears.
‘Is it all right with you if I put a few cows out there? It’s nice clean pasture. Shame to waste it.’
Lucy looked puzzled. ‘But it’s your field, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, but I’m still obliged by the lease. Mr Carrington paid me five years in advance.’
‘But Edward has been dead for over two years.’
&n
bsp; ‘I know. But he was an honest man and generous too and, even though he's dead and buried, I have to honour my side of the bargain. Besides,’ he said, ‘you and Mrs Pugh did a wonderful job when things were scarce. I take me hat off to you. All that work you did for the war effort. I’d never begrudge you the use of it.’
‘Everyone did what they could,’ Lucy said.
‘I should have done more,’ the farmer said, shaking his head. ‘But I had enough on me plate at the time.’
As Lucy placed the mug of tea on the table, the farmer glanced at the dirt embedded deep beneath his fingernails. Sliding his hands to his lap he hid them beneath the table cloth. Lucy looked at the man. His face was weathered, his skin leathery, his expression gaunt and drawn, his grey-green eyes half sunken into the sockets. He wasn’t a tall man but was wiry. His hair was wiry too, grey and sparse on top except for his sideburns which were ginger and matched the colour of his overlong moustache. Like his hair, it was in dire need of a trim.
‘Well if it’s all right with you, Mrs Oldfield, I’ll bring a few heifers down tomorrow.’
‘Should I get James to move the horse?’
‘No, leave it. Cows won’t mind a bit of company. Only interested in what’s under their noses.’ He sipped the tea and looked around the room.
Lucy watched him, following his gaze. First he glanced at the doll sitting on the straight-backed chair, then at the photo on the mantelpiece. Both the doll and the young woman in the picture wore white uniforms bearing the distinctive red nursing cross.
‘Is that young Alice from next door?’
Lucy smiled. ‘It is,’ she said, taking down the picture and handing it to him.
‘Fine girl. Don’t see much of her these days.’
‘She works away. At Cookridge Hospital.’
‘Ah!’ he sighed and handed the photograph back to Lucy. ‘Do you want a calf?’
Through Glass Eyes Page 12
