by S Block
I can’t think of a better way to spend one’s life.
The ambulance drove along the high street and came to the junction where the memorial to village men lost in the Great War stood, grey and austere. An army lorry was rolling through as the ambulance slowed at the junction, causing it to have to wait for a few seconds. Erica watched as Will stared at the memorial, his eyes blinking slowly as they reread the inscribed words: ‘To the glory of God and in memory of the men of this village who gave their lives in the Great War 1914 – 1918’. She saw his eyes drop below, to the carved names of the dead.
His ‘old chums’, as he always called them, though he’d never been to Great Paxford before the war. I wonder if he’s imagining his own name among them, joining them at last.
Will’s survival had troubled him for several years after the end of the war. To offset the deep feelings of guilt he’d experienced, Will established his new practice with an uncompromising energy that impressed the locals but dismayed Erica. It left him exhausted at the end of most days, following long bicycle rides all over the district to make what turned out to be unnecessary house calls.
In those early days, Will would take the loss of a patient harder than was good for him. Erica became convinced he was punishing himself in peacetime for perceived failings during the war. For the sake of his health she had eventually forced Will to confront this. After long discussion, he conceded there had been no reason why he had survived over so many he considered better men than himself. For a man of science for whom every cause had an effect, the admission that the continuation or annulment of life during war was determined by pure chance almost broke his spirit. But for Erica’s patient counselling, and for the love he received in an unbroken flow from his daughters, it possibly would have left Will profoundly depressed. Thankfully, Erica discovered her love of rambling, and used to drag Will out with her, kicking and screaming. A southern boy, raised and educated in Oxford, Will’s idea of a walk was the journey required to get from whichever armchair he happened to be sitting in to the nearest pub. A Home Counties girl, Erica introduced Will to the treasure of the countryside – its sweep and its silences, its weather and its birdsong. What Will loved more than anything was the ability it offered him to walk for mile upon mile and never hear another human voice. If, according to the apostles, the poor are always with us, for Will it was the sick. Only walking with Erica in the countryside surrounding Great Paxford could he shake them off, if just for an hour or two a week.
The ambulance moved away from the war memorial and continued up a small hill towards the Campbells’ new home, in a cul-de-sac enclosed by a broad copse of oak.
Erica noticed Will’s eyes had now closed from exhaustion, though his hand continued to rest on the ambulance window, its fingers splayed, like a child’s that had tried to reach out and touch all the interesting and exciting things he could see on the other side. His breathing was slow and laboured.
So little exertion seems to tire him completely. As soon as we get in I’ll sit him in the armchair on oxygen for an hour.
Erica looked out of the window and saw they were approaching the new house. As they drew closer she could see Laura’s face at the upstairs window, watching for their arrival. The moment she registered the approaching ambulance Laura’s face disappeared from the window. Erica touched Will’s hand and his eyes slowly opened and sought out hers.
‘We’re home, darling,’ she said quietly.
Will looked out of the window, curious to see the new house. The smile that slowly spread across his face was not at the sight of the handsomely gabled roof, or at the young, recently planted wisteria growing up the left flank of the front door, or even at the neat front garden they’d never had before. It was at the sight of his elder daughter coming out of the front door. She looked more mature than when he’d last seen her. She wore her hair in a practical style, with fewer curls. She wore no lipstick, and her clothes were neat and functional, not designed to show off her young figure. Within a moment, Laura appeared behind her older sister, took her hand and pulled her along.
Inside the ambulance, Will turned gleefully to Erica.
‘Kate!’ he exclaimed with delight.
‘She wanted to be here to welcome you home.’
Kate was studying to be a nurse in Manchester, and it hadn’t occurred to Will that she might be here to greet him. His smile continued to broaden beyond the limit of the oxygen mask, as he watched his daughters run down the narrow, gravel garden path, towards the decelerating ambulance.
‘My girls,’ he said in an exultant whisper. ‘My Kate . . .’
Erica looked at him and smiled. ‘Do you imagine for one moment I could keep her away?’
I can’t recall who once said ‘children were the best medicine’, but look at his face! They were absolutely right.
Chapter 38
Marek.
A few months ago, I had an affair with a man called Marek that lasted three months, and it was the most exciting, wonderful period of my life. I’m not writing his surname, or anything else. Not even the colour of his eyes. I understand that Mass Observation reports are anonymous, but given even the merest possibility either of us might be identifiable I shall write no details about him. This isn’t a story, after all. This is my life.
Whoever reads this – assuming someone is reading this, possibly in some dusty office between the hours of nine and five, with a cooling cup of tea on the desk, and a packet of sandwiches for your lunch – you don’t, dear reader, need to know anything about Marek except that I think he is the most wonderful man in the world, and that I had given up ever hearing from him again. He came into my life when I was least expecting it, while my husband was away, and transformed me completely. Looking back, I truly think I had begun to die inside, as a consequence of the way my husband treated me. I have written about that elsewhere, in other reports. If you have read those too, you may have noticed some parts of the paper were slightly wrinkled from where my tears fell, and then dried. Marek then went from my life. Was taken from my life. It doesn’t matter now. None of it matters now. Nothing matters now except that he is back.
Not literally. Not physically in a form I can touch and hold and kiss. I don’t know when that will be possible. Perhaps only when this war ends, assuming we both survive. There are no guarantees, and for now we must all live under the swastika’s shadow. But Marek is alive and he is back in my life as surely as if he were standing at the foot of the bed on which I am writing. How do I know?
A letter.
Three days ago I received a letter from him. To be clear, I didn’t take possession of the letter. It was intercepted by my landlady, who passed it on to my husband, who realised what it was and burned it on the small, mean fire he keeps alight near his feet as he works (other men returned from the Great War with terrible injuries and missing limbs – my husband returned with chilblains and poor circulation to his feet. If he were any other man I would be full of sympathy. But he is my daily tormentor).
See how readily I write about my husband, dear reader? My sick obsession. I can only hope these reports have not been assigned to the same individual. If they have been, if I have been assigned to you in perpetuity, whoever you are, I can only assume you must receive my reports with a sinking heart at the seemingly endless repetition of hatred and shame I send you. I can only apologise. Perhaps you have already learned to skim over parts relating to my husband. If so, many of my reports can’t take you long to read as there is so little left. Apologies. I shall try and keep to today’s news.
Three days ago, I received a letter from my lover. My husband destroyed the letter before I had a chance to read it, but no matter. Marek is alive. For that alone I can’t express my relief. The not knowing was excruciating. But more than that, he is trying to reach me.
The fact that I now know he wrote to me is all I need to lift my eyes from the floor and smile (if only to myself – and to you, dear reader; if you were here I would be smiling at yo
u at this moment).
I know what you’re thinking, because I thought it myself. One letter does not a love-letter make. Correct. Because a single letter could be anything. That I have chosen to assume it is a love-letter from my still-lover is a desire on my part. But it could be the opposite – a letter explaining why, from his perspective, our relationship is dead. If I had received only a single letter I would be forced to accept that could be a distinct possibility. A letter delivering a full stop to any lingering hope on my part that our relationship was a living entity. It would have crushed me in a way I do not want to think about, let alone try and describe. But I don’t have to.
Because this letter was not the only one Marek has sent me. According to my husband there have been others. He won’t say how many, which implies that he doesn’t want me to know or he’s lost count.
My interpretation is this: if a man wishes to end an affair he will send a letter to his lover (imminently, ex-lover) to end it, and will move on with his life. Wouldn’t you agree, dear reader? Isn’t a man clinical in this regard in a way that a woman is probably less so? A woman might write such a letter of termination, but hope to keep open the possibility of friendship, if that were possible under the circumstances surrounding the end of the affair (assuming it concluded amicably enough). A form of friendship for a woman in that situation would be a compensation for the overall loss. We seek to salvage what we can, not cut our losses. Or is that only me? Is that why I have stayed with my husband and not fought harder to leave? Because I am trying to salvage some moments with him worth having? Here I am again talking about him!
If Marek had fallen out of love with me I believe he would have sent me one letter of termination and one only. What on earth would be the point of sending more, if he has said all he has to say? Dragging it out over several missives would be cruel. And he is the opposite of a cruel man. I know the difference, dear reader, believe me – it sleeps beside me every night of my life.
But in sending repeated letters I am convinced Marek is seeking my response to his same stated feelings, sent repeatedly until he gets a reply. And he is all too aware of my situation with my husband. He knows it might be difficult for me to receive his correspondence. But whatever he’s writing to me, he won’t give up until I answer. That much seems clear to me. I don’t know this for certain. And I won’t until I read his words. But I am convinced of it.
I know what you’re thinking. I have convinced myself.
Perhaps.
But, if so, so what? There is nothing to gainsay this conclusion except my husband’s repugnant interpretation of Marek’s letters (begging for money), so why can’t I enjoy what I fervently believe until proved wrong? If proof comes, and I am shown for a fool, so be it. I’ll deal with that then. Until that time, I remain convinced Marek is trying to reach me in order to establish contact, in order to ask why I failed to meet him on the last day he was stationed near my village. I would tell him – correction (because it has to happen) – I will tell him the moment I have the chance, I only failed to meet him because my husband stole the message instructing me when and where.
I believe Marek wants to know this because he wants to know if I effectively brought our relationship to an end by not appearing on his last day. That he writes over and over is evidence that he is yearning to hear I failed to appear for another reason (which is the case). Because I was always the fearful one. It was me who was in a constant state of fear that we might be seen around the village, even though we went to great pains to not be seen. Consequently, it is reasonable for him to assume I might have finally lost my nerve.
But I hadn’t. And I haven’t yet. On the contrary. I had finally decided to break from my husband, whatever the cost. For my own sanity, safety and well-being.
He will only stop writing when he has my reply. That’s what I believe. And it brings me great solace, because even though I have no idea where he is, and so where to write, as long as he doesn’t hear from me that it’s over between us he will retain a spark of hope that it is not. I carry the same spark. Now I know he has been trying to write to me I shall imagine us waking each morning, and the first thing we will think of is one another.
I know what you’re thinking, my dear bureaucrat, shut in your room until the end of your working day. You are thinking ‘this woman is mad’. I agree! But, what is love but a form of madness? I am mad because I have been made that way by two men. Mad with loathing by one. Mad with love by the other. It can’t continue. I’m an intelligent woman, I understand a life like this is not sustainable.
No matter what Bob says or does to me, I have never lost my grip on that, even if I’ve lost it on much else. Eventually, I will have to make a choice to settle for the impoverished life offered by my bastard husband (you’ve heard me call him that before, repeatedly, so you mustn’t affect shock) or strike out on my own. With or without Marek. That day of reckoning must come.
And I can tell you as I can tell no one else, not even my closest female friends. I will not accept much more life on the bastard’s terms. If I ultimately fail to strike out on my own I shall strike myself out. I’ve thought about it before. On more than one occasion. It would take moments to bring this misery to an end. I’d been contemplating the methodology when I learned of Marek’s letter.
I don’t have time to think of that now. As I write this to you, dear sir or madam, I imagine my Marek writing another letter to me, hoping that this will be the one I reply to. I must find a way to do so. What would you suggest? All correspondence addressed to either myself or my husband is handed to him by our landlady. Dare I risk bringing her into my secret in the hope she will deliver Marek’s letters directly? Without informing? She is a strange old bird. I can’t predict what she might do if I tried to take her into my confidence. The repercussions could be appalling, or wonderful.
The more I think about it, the more I believe she would harshly judge my adultery (it’s what it is, I’m not ashamed to write it – I hope you’re not scandalised to read it. I hope the Mass Observation project has chosen its readers carefully, people of experience, with strong stomachs). My landlady thinks the world of my husband because she only sees what he wants her to see. I fear she is completely under his spell.
I can’t take the chance of speaking to her. But how else can I receive the next letter Marek sends without going to the post office every morning before she does, and alerting the bastard’s suspicion?
I wish you were here, dear reader, sitting beside me. I could pick your brain. You must be intelligent or you would not have been chosen for the job of reading our reports, and no doubt writing reports of your own about them. I wonder if you are jotting down an idea or two in the margin about what I might do? What can I do? The letters from Marek are my letters, after all. Is it not illegal to interfere with another’s mail?
I’m trapped, aren’t I? It certainly feels that way. Trapped creatures often lash out to their own detriment. I mustn’t give in to my impulse to do anything for the sake of doing something. I need to think clearly. I need help. I know Marek is out there trying to reach me. How do I reach back and connect? How can I receive his next letter, and not have it intercepted and destroyed by my husband?
Wait . . .
Perhaps there is someone.
It would be a great risk. But—
The bedside alarm clock halted the flow of Pat’s pen across the page, signalling it was time to make Bob’s tea. On the hour every hour while he worked. The alarm was Pat’s idea to keep her prompt, but it had all too predictably become the cue by which Bob could harass her on the hour.
‘Tea!’ came Bob’s peeved cry from downstairs. ‘And a biscuit! Two biscuits, yes?’
‘Coming!’ she called down.
Pat carefully stowed her writing paraphernalia where Bob wouldn’t find it, and hurried, smiling, from the room.
Chapter 39
Nick had telephoned to tell Teresa he wouldn’t be home until later that night. He couldn’t divul
ge details, but used coded language to let his wife know the Luftwaffe was en route to bomb the north-west, which meant Crewe and Liverpool. Tabley Wood would be sending up its squadrons to try to disrupt the raid, and send the Luftwaffe pilots running for home before they could reach their destination. But whether dumped on their intended targets or prematurely over the English countryside, bombs would fall on Cheshire. Teresa put the telephone receiver down and offered a small prayer for the safety of her family in Birkenhead, and for the rest of the terrorised population of her beloved home city.
Having failed to smash the RAF and force a British surrender, Hitler’s High Command was determined to crush British morale by pummelling its major cities from the air, and starving the United Kingdom into submission by destroying its ports and shipping. Facing the Atlantic with a port critical to shipping routes from the United States, Liverpool was a target second only to London. Hence its nightly bombing, and the nightly exodus of much of its population into the surrounding countryside. Grass and trees had no strategic value to the German air force, though camping out in the countryside was not entirely risk free. Stray bombs, or bombs released early, were a lethal hazard for exhausted trekkers.
After she had replaced the receiver on its hook, Teresa stood in silence for a few moments, wondering how she would spend the evening. She could have an early night and go to bed, but knew she wouldn’t sleep until Nick climbed in warm and safe beside her. She could have supper and try to read, or listen to the wireless. But again, she knew she wouldn’t properly concentrate on either while Nick was at the station, coordinating his flyers, waiting in silent agony for their safe return.
I need some company.
Teresa telephoned Alison to see if she might be free to come over for the evening with Boris, for a spot of supper and a natter. It would be like the old days, when they were lodger and landlady. Alison was just about to make her own supper, but accepted Teresa’s invitation, and walked over with Boris within the hour.
