by S Block
‘Take it, Pat. I have to get back.’
Pat struggled to resist her urge to snatch the letter and tear it open. She calmly reached out and took it.
‘Thank you so much, Erica. You have no idea what this means to me.’
Erica looked at Pat doubtfully, and said, ‘I only hope it gives you what you want.’
Pat closed and locked the door, returned to her desk and sat down. She had waited months to receive word from Marek. Now it was here.
Finally! Finally!
The letter didn’t feel particularly thick in her hand.
Perhaps he didn’t have much time to write. The important thing is he wrote. He kept writing.
Pat held the envelope up to the light to see if it revealed some hint of what was inside, but it didn’t. She took a deep breath to control her nerves.
What if it isn’t what I want it to be? What if . . . he doesn’t write what I want him to write?
‘Just open it and find out,’ she whispered.
What if Bob was telling the truth and he’s asking for money? I don’t believe that, but then . . . I never believed a man like Marek could love a woman like me.
‘Just open it.’ Her voice was more insistent.
What if everything I’ve pinned my hopes on is a sham? What if I’m the complete fool Bob takes me for? What if Marek saw that too? Oh God . . .
Pat felt suddenly hot as the inside of the exchange started to swim before her eyes. Hearing from Marek had meant everything to her in the weeks since his departure. In her mind, it had meant confirmation of their love, and the hope of eventual release from servitude to Bob.
But what if it amounts to nothing? What if marriage to Bob is all a woman like me can either expect . . . or deserve?
Pat looked at the letter on the wooden desk. Her name in Marek’s hand. But what else inside? It could be everything, or nothing at all.
Absence doesn’t only make the heart grow fonder. It can also make the mind grow less and less certain about things we think are true. I think . . . I thought I knew him. What if I was completely mistaken?
As Pat looked at the letter she became aware that her hands were sweating.
‘Just open it,’ she whispered. ‘Just open it . . .’
She slowly reached forward and picked the letter off the desk. She then carefully slipped her thumbnail under the left-hand corner of the envelope’s sealing flap, and slowly prised it open. . . .
My dearest Patricia . . .
Chapter 48
If Lakin thinks he can threaten me, he’s got another think coming. If he wants a fight he’s going to have one – on the telephone or face to face. The last thing Noah needs is more upheaval. I made a mistake by not trusting my own instincts and digging in my heels about not sending him away to boarding school. I shall not do so again.
When preparing for confrontation it was Frances’s habit to rehearse her core arguments to herself as she approached the arena of conflict, whether that was the village hall and a WI meeting, or the hallway of her own house and a telephone conversation with Noah’s grandfather, Morris Lakin. This frequently saw her striding through the village or – as on this occasion – across her own lawn, muttering animatedly to herself, like a boxer geeing himself up between the dressing room and the ring. Though she would often try to second-guess what the opposition might throw at her, Frances found it wasn’t essential, so convinced was she by her own conviction and prowess.
The child doesn’t need any more pushing from pillar to post. What he needs above all else is stability – of location, and of the people around him. Enough is enough.
By the time Frances picked up the receiver she had pumped herself into an uncompromising mood. She knew the police had informed the Lakins of Noah’s return earlier in the day, and saw little point in beating around the bush.
‘Mr Lakin,’ she said, ‘I was planning to telephone you this evening to discuss matters. Once I’d seen to Noah’s needs.’
‘Your maid told me Noah is already up and about, Mrs Barden.’
‘Such a relief to have him home safe and sound.’ She placed some emphasis on the word ‘home’ to make it clear to Lakin where she believed Noah’s home now was. ‘He slept like a log for nearly seven hours and, rather remarkably, seems none the worse for wear. Though I dare say he won’t completely recover from his odyssy for a few days yet.’
‘I’m mightily relieved, Mrs Barden. Any other outcome doesn’t bear thinking about. I’ve had to keep the entire business from Mrs Lakin for fear of triggering a relapse of her emphysema. Not an easy matter, I can tell you.’
‘It was a tremendous shock to everyone’s system, Mr Lakin. When I think of what— No. The time for terrible speculation is – as you imply – thankfully over.’
‘Is it, Mrs Barden? I’m not so sure.’
What are you suggesting, old man? I didn’t believe Claire had it right, but it does sound very much as if you are threatening something.
‘Forgive me if I’m mistaken, Mr Lakin, but I’m picking up a tone of misgiving in your voice. Is that the case?’
‘I’m afraid it is, Mrs Barden. I’m disappointed. Tremendously disappointed. I did wonder if something like this might occur. But not so soon as this.’
Frances had met with Helen’s father several times to discuss his grandson’s future, and on each occasion had found him reserved but respectful. This version of the man seemed openly confrontational.
But about what? It wasn’t my desire to send Noah away to school. I was merely acting on Peter and Helen’s wishes. If you have any kind of problem with what’s happened over the past few days it is surely with them and not with me.
‘Would you mind explaining yourself, Mr Lakin, when you say you “did wonder if something like this might occur”?’
If I’m not mistaken, Lakin has spoken as a man who has already arrived at his conclusion. Stay calm. Don’t antagonise. He’s no doubt still upset by what’s just happened. This is undissipated anxiety. Let him talk it out if he must.
‘You were asked to take Noah in to keep him out of Liverpool during the bombing campaign, and to see that Peter and Helen’s wishes for his education were met.’
‘Have I not done exactly what you’ve described?’
‘You did. Yes, you did.’
‘Am I wrong to pick up that you are placing a definite emphasis on the past tense, Mr Lakin?’
‘You are not, Mrs Barden. I have just spoken with Dr Nelms at the school—’
‘You have my sympathies. I find the man impenetrably dense.’
‘He said you’ve decided Noah won’t be returning.’
‘It’s what Noah wants. And if I may be frank, it’s what I have come to realise I want too.’
‘I see . . .’
Lakin’s voice trailed off ominously.
‘You see what exactly?’
Frances took a deep breath and prepared herself for his attack.
‘Did it not occur to you, Mrs Barden, that your decision to remove Noah from the boarding school is not yours alone to make? Where will he be educated if not there?’
‘Great Paxford has a fine village school, Mr Lakin. Noah will fit in splendidly.’
‘That’s as may be. But it is neither what your husband wanted for the boy, nor my daughter.’
In his delivery of those two words Frances suddenly understood the reason for his hostility.
‘I can assure you, Mr Lakin, I am only thinking of what’s in Noah’s best interests.’
‘Noah has a mother, Mrs Barden,’ he said pointedly. ‘You are not her.’
Tears immediately pricked Frances’s eyes.
Have I ever said I was? Have I ever pretended to be her?
While she would never contest Lakin’s statement, she could nevertheless qualify it.
‘Noah had a mother, Mr Lakin. And a father. Their tragic loss will remain with each of us until our dying day. Were Helen and Peter alive you and I would not be having this conversation. We
re they alive, I dare say you and I would never have cause to speak, or know of one another – as we did not when they were alive. I didn’t know Noah then. By which I mean I wasn’t merely unacquainted with him – I mean he was kept completely secret from me. As you know.’
‘Nevertheless—’
‘I should like to finish my point if I may?’
Frances was counting on Lakin being unused to becoming entangled in debate with women as forthright as she.
‘Very well,’ he said, with an audible sigh.
‘When Helen died, her status as Noah’s mother did not die with her. But her role as his mother did. In her absence, someone has to take up that role—’
‘That wasn’t the basis upon which we asked you to take him in,’ said Lakin, his voice hardening. ‘It was simply to provide refuge from the assault on—’
‘Liverpool, yes. I agree, providing a maternal influence was not the basis upon which I took Noah into my home. That said, at the time I agreed to have him I could not foresee the effect he might have on me, and vice versa. Neither do I believe you foresaw it, or else you would have warned me against it. I took him in and in spending time with the child I could feel myself naturally bonding with him. And he with me. Here was a vulnerable child under my care. Vulnerable not only to German bombs, but to finding himself in the world without a mother or father. He needs more than a safe roof over his head, and I realised I could give him more. What was I to do, Mr Lakin? Deny my growing feelings of affection? Curtail his?’
There was silence at the other end of the line.
‘We have lost our daughter, Mrs Barden.’
‘I can assure you I am not trying to replace Helen. As painful as her involvement in my life has been, I would never seek to supplant her in Noah’s heart. I talk about her and Peter all the time. But they are no longer here to act on his life. I – we – are.’
‘Helen’s wishes must be respected alongside Peter’s. They decided Noah should go to boarding school.’
‘I understand that. But ask yourself this, Mr Lakin: if Helen and Peter hadn’t perished, and had sent Noah off to school, as I did, according to their wishes, and Noah had run away as he did, do you believe Helen would have sent him back?’
There was another silence at the other end of the line.
‘Mr Lakin?’
Lakin eventually spoke, his voice calm but cold.
‘We need to meet, Mrs Barden. Of course, Noah has opportunities living with you that we can’t begin to match. But that doesn’t mean we don’t think of him day and night. I won’t have you riding roughshod over ours, or Helen’s, wishes.’
Frances suddenly felt intensely frustrated. During Noah’s flight from boarding school she had become increasingly confident in her conviction that sending him away had been a terrible mistake. With his safe return she had become even more convinced that was the case, and that everything he could need as a growing boy could be found here in Great Paxford.
‘I can assure you I have no interest in trying to ride roughshod over your feelings, Mr Lakin. Nor ignore Helen’s – and Peter’s – wishes for the child. I believe if you could see me in person you would believe I am sincere in this regard. However, Noah’s feelings must also come into consideration now he has experienced life at boarding school. In a very clear way, he has voted with his feet, has he not?’
‘He is a boy of eight, Mrs Barden. Who can say what was going through his mind when he chose to bolt?’
‘Noah can. And has. You underestimate the boy’s intelligence if you believe he has been incapable of explaining his actions, Mr Lakin.’
Frances could feel herself growing impatient and tried to calm herself before saying something she might regret.
‘Noah told me he ran away because he was mocked by other boys for the way he spoke, that they played terrible tricks on him. And, yes, he told me he missed being here. And would tell you the same if you were to ask him.’
‘Very convenient to your purpose to suggest that one of the reasons Noah ran away was to return to you.’
Frances could feel her face growing hot with anger.
‘I deliberately didn’t specify “me”, Mr Lakin. I said “here”. By which I meant Great Paxford. The house. The grounds. My maid and her husband, who happily fuss over and play with Noah each and every day.’
There was another silence on the other end of the line that Frances found difficult to interpret. She felt a strong urge to jump in and keep Lakin on the back foot, but didn’t want to antagonise him further.
‘We need to discuss the matter,’ Lakin finally said.
Frances closed her eyes at the prospect of a protracted negotiation over a matter she believed required no negotiation whatsoever. However, she had no wish to provoke further intransigence.
‘Very well, Mr Lakin. May I invite you to come to Great Paxford at my expense, and see what we can offer Noah? We can show you the village, and the school I’m proposing he attend. I would be delighted to host you at the house. But if you’d prefer, I would be more than happy to book you into the Black Horse overnight. Again, at my expense.’
It took a moment for Lakin to consider her offer, but he eventually spoke.
‘I think that may be in the best interests of the boy,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your kind offer but I will travel and lodge at my own expense.’
Frances was sure she detected a hint of suspicion in his voice about her proposal to foot the bill, as if it might compromise Lakin’s judgement.
He’s not altogether wrong. There was an element of that in my invitation. Good for him for resisting. I would have done the same.
After the arrangements were made, Frances put down the receiver and heard Noah laughing in the garden. She walked into the sitting room and looked out through the French window. Spencer had finished work for the day and Noah was helping him set up stumps for a game of cricket. Once the stumps were in place, Spencer tossed Noah the small, red cricket ball, and took up the batsman’s position in front of the wicket.
He needs to be nurtured. And this is where he wants to be, so why not let him be here? Life with us is hardly a consolation prize. He is a special boy. It’s visible in the effect he has on everyone he meets. Everyone seems to respond to him the same way. Except in that damned school, where it seems everyone must behave the same, like little English gentlemen. Future governors of the Empire. I wonder how much will be left to govern on the other side of this war?
Noah strode down the imagined ‘crease’ to the start of his run-up, then turned and looked at Spencer with an expression of intense seriousness. Spencer half-crouched, anticipating the ball, tapping the bottom edge of the bat gently on the turf.
Claire appeared at Frances’s side, and watched Noah stare intently at Spencer, before starting his run-up.
‘According to Spencer,’ said Claire, ‘he’s surprisingly good for his age.’
Frances smiled, and watched Noah approach the bowler’s wicket in the same manner she had seen full-sized cricketers on the village green approach the bowler’s wicket. When Noah reached it he should have taken one, two, three little hops and hurled the ball overarm towards Spencer with all his strength. He didn’t. Instead, Noah continued to run towards Spencer without releasing the ball, and when he reached him, he threw his arms around Spencer’s waist, and stayed like that, hugging the young man.
Spencer looked down at the child and then up at the house, where Frances and Claire were watching.
‘This is where he wants to be, Mrs Barden,’ she said, wiping her eye. ‘With us.’
Claire glanced at Frances, hoping she hadn’t spoken out of turn.
‘I know,’ said Frances quietly.
Spencer laid down the bat, knelt in front of Noah, wrapped his arms around the child, and hugged him back.
‘Can his grandparents take him away?’ asked Claire, her voice faltering with trepidation.
‘They can,’ said Frances softly, recognising the realities of the task ahead.
She then turned to Claire and looked her directly in the eye.
‘But I shall do everything in my power to ensure they won’t.’
Chapter 49
Walking along the High Street at the end of her shift, Pat pushed her left hand deep into her coat pocket, wrapping her fingers tightly around Marek’s letter as she would wrap them around a lifebelt in a rough sea. The wind and rain buffeted her, but she barely noticed.
He still loves me . . .
Pat moved her fingertips over the flat surface of the envelope, and slipped them inside, finding the paper on which Marek’s letter was written, tracing the soft indentations of his handwriting on the densely packed page.
Dearest Patricia,
Once again I am finding myself writing to you, in hope that this will be the letter that will cause you to reply to me. I remain in England but cannot speak where. I can only give the enclosed address to send your reply to, and your letter will be sent on to me. If you choose to reply. Soon I am to go to the north for more training. I think of you every day. I cannot help myself. Always the same question returns. Why did you not come to meet me on my last day? Did you not find my message? Could you not endure to say goodbye? Some days I wish I was able to stop thinking of you so I can forget and move on. But I cannot.
Pat was careful not to smile, or skip along the road as she felt compelled to do. She contained the urge to run through the village calling out, ‘He still loves me!’ at everyone she passed.
Yet she knew she dare not make a single misstep or look in any way out of the ordinary. Any incongruity, no matter how slight, would be noticed by someone somewhere in Great Paxford, and anything could get reported back to Bob by one of his cronies from the pub, or their wives.
‘Saw your missus the other day, Mr Simms. Well chuffed about something, she looked.’
That’s all it would take to arouse Bob’s suspicions, and the nagging and incessant probing would begin. He wouldn’t rest until he knew the cause of Pat’s good humour, so he could winkle it out of her and crush it. She would hold out, of course, but until he knew what was making her happy he would make her life unbearable.
