by S Block
Everything that followed had been a lie.
A sudden stab of fear caught at her. She could never escape what she had done in those final moments. What she had not done. It was something she was going to have to live with.
Whether it was a secret she could bear, and what damage it might do as it gnawed away at her, time alone would tell.
Chapter 2
A
FEW DAYS AFTER THE funeral, Sarah Collingborne was back at St Mark’s for the Sunday morning service. As the church began to fill up, she was struck once more by how changed the congregation was since the outbreak of war. Most of the younger men had joined up and gone to fight. Some would not be coming back. Others were missing, their fate unknown. ‘Missing’ at least meant there was still hope. Sarah’s heart went out to those families who had received nothing more than a sparse few words on a telegram and who now existed in a kind of limbo, praying and hoping for news. Good news. She considered herself fortunate.
Adam was alive.
He was able to write.
She felt inside the pocket of her skirt for his letter. Since its arrival, she had carried it everywhere, even placing it on her bedside table at night, then sleepily reaching out in the dark once or twice to tuck it under her pillow. There was comfort in keeping it close, she found, keeping it to herself. She had told no one about it, not even Frances, who sat beside her, focused on Reverend James as he delivered a reading from Romans: ‘. . . although the body is dead because of sin, the spirit is alive because of righteousness . . . ’
Sarah’s fingers tightened around the envelope. In all conscience, she could not keep it to herself, although she had been tempted to, fearing that once she shared Adam’s letter, the power of his words and the connection she felt to them would somehow be broken. And yet it would not be right to behave as if she had heard nothing from him when there were others in the village beside herself who keenly felt Adam’s absence.
They deserved to know what news there was. Each week, they gathered to pray for Adam’s safe return. They missed him, just as she did – his kindness, his good sense, that way he had of getting to the heart of things. If he were here – and oh, Sarah wished he were – he would be working tirelessly to bring some sense of peace to those in need.
And yet it was her news, and part of her was reluctant to share it, to share him, with her neighbours.
What remained of the service passed in a blur, Sarah lost in her own thoughts until she felt a nudge and glanced up to see Frances giving her a curious look. From the altar, Reverend James beckoned her forward.
Sarah made her way to the front of the church, sensing a change in the atmosphere, one or two murmurings of disquiet. It was strange how the air could feel suddenly different when charged with anticipation. She looked out at the sea of anxious faces now gazing at her, and swallowed. The last time she had stood up in church to speak was when she had learned of Adam’s capture.
Almost a year had passed since then. It seemed even longer.
She decided to plunge straight in. ‘As you’re aware, the Reverend Collingborne is being held in a German prisoner of war camp. This week I received a letter from him which I’d very much like to share with you. ’ She registered the looks of concern that passed among those facing her and sought to reassure them. ‘It appears from what he’s able to say that he is well and coping with his situation. ’
At once, the tension seemed to evaporate. She took the letter from her pocket and pulled it free of its envelope. Adam’s neat handwriting covered both sides of a single sheet of paper. She had studied the words so many times, poring over each one, searching for hidden meaning, that she could almost have recited them from memory. My beloved Sarah, Adam wrote. Three precious words she was not willing to share. Her eyes went further down the page.
‘ “Conditions here are really not so bad”, ’ Sarah began. ‘ “I am sharing my quarters with some decent chaps who have a way of making light of things. There is a good deal of laughter, what might be termed ‘black humour’. The place itself is bearable, the guards watchful, but I have received no ill treatment and am able to continue with some of my chaplaincy work. Most of us are in reasonable spirits. We have enough to eat and we do PT almost every day after breakfast to keep fit. For some, however, the mental strain of captivity is proving to be the most distressing aspect of confinement”. ’
Sarah paused to look up, and saw one or two heads nod in agreement. Alison Scotlock, a friend from the WI, whose husband, George, was lost in the Great War, caught her eye and gave an encouraging smile. Seated in the row behind were the Brindsleys: Miriam, cradling Vivian on her lap; Bryn, one hand resting lightly on his daughter’s ankle; and David, their eldest, who ’d survived the sinking of his merchant ship and was now back home. For a long while, he had been ‘missing’. It had been a dark and difficult time for his parents, who somehow managed to stumble through each day until their son’s return breathed life into them once more.
Sarah inhaled and continued: ‘ “More than anything I look forward to the day when I will return. Never in my entire life have I longed so much for home. A great deal must have changed since I last saw you. I cannot help but think that many among the congregation at St Mark’s must now be in need of love and support. So many separations, so much loss and suffering. In this time of turmoil and great uncertainty there cannot be a single soul who is not, in some way, affected. All any of us can do is manage as best we can, one day at a time. In spirit, at least, I am very much with you. With all of you. Great Paxford is where my heart lies”. ’ Sarah skipped the next few lines, which were for her eyes alone. She gazed at the faces in front of her and registered expressions of relief. A few smiles. ‘ “You are all very much in my thoughts and prayers at all times. If that brings even a small amount of comfort, I give thanks to God”. ’
She folded the letter, replaced it in her pocket and went back to her seat. Frances put a hand on her arm. ‘Very nicely done,’ she said. ‘You really are full of surprises. ’
As the church emptied, Sarah was approached by several people eager to speak to her.
Alison Scotlock appeared at her side. ‘That was really very touching,’ she said. ‘Adam doesn’t feel so far away anymore. So like him to be thinking of others. ’
‘And still managing to do some good in the parish, even though he’s not even here,’ Miriam Brindsley said. ‘Let him know we’re grateful for his news, won’t you, and that he’s very much in our prayers. ’
Sarah nodded. ‘I will, of course. ’
‘See how happy they all look,’ Frances said, as they trailed away. ‘A few well-chosen words and you’ve managed to deliver a real tonic to the village. ’
‘Adam’s words,’ Sarah said.
‘He does have a way of saying the right thing, whatever the moment requires,’ Frances said. ‘And, as ever, his sense of timing is impeccable. Truly uplifting. Had you noticed the atmosphere in church before you got up to speak? It was . . . ’ She frowned, searching for the right word. ‘Flat,’ she said at last. ‘Mind you, that might have something to do with your husband’s rather pedestrian stand-in. I do feel for Reverend James. I’ve no doubt he means well but he does tend to be . . . ’ Frances left space for Sarah to supply whatever adjective she felt was most suitable.
Dull, Sarah thought. Uninspiring. She had always found Reverend James a poor substitute for Adam. It was as if he were attached to the parish in only a half-hearted kind of way – not quite committed or fully engaged.
And yet, what chance did the poor man have, following in the footsteps of someone like Adam, filling in on a temporary basis until he was shunted to another parish where the congregation might well be less than enthusiastic about having him? It was not the most comfortable position for anyone. She had never before considered that her own presence must serve as a constant reminder that the rightful vicar of St Mark’s was absent. In church, as she ’d delivered her
news and the atmosphere had changed, Reverend James must surely have been aware. It was almost as if the parishioners were half-hearted in their feelings towards him. Perhaps she was being unfair to find him lacking, given what he was up against.
‘I’d say you’ve managed to put a collective spring in our step,’ Frances told her.
‘Not me – Adam. ’
Frances gave her a searching look. ‘Well, you certainly caught me unawares. I had no idea you’d even heard from him, and I shan’t ask why you decided not to tell me. I’m sure you had your reasons. ’
Sarah wasn’t sure she could explain. It had been a small act of rebellion, perhaps. She had wanted him all to herself, if only for a short time. She had known when she married Adam that there would always be an element of having to share him, that others would lay claim to his time and energy, sometimes at inconvenient moments. He was never off duty; he would never turn away anyone in need. She loved him for it. And yet, she also knew (and had been at pains to point this out to Adam) that she would never be a typical vicar’s wife. She didn’t share her husband’s faith, for one thing. For another, she could never see herself hosting genteel gatherings at the rectory or making house calls on parishioners. But Adam had never minded or sought to change her. Each accepted the other for who they were.
She gave Frances a helpless look. ‘I honestly don’t know why I didn’t tell you. ’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Frances said. ‘It takes courage to open oneself up like that, and I’m very proud of you. ’
Gwen Talbot emerged from St Mark’s, pausing for a moment to adjust the angle of her hat, a straw affair decorated with a tired-looking floral arrangement, before heading their way. ‘I won’t be a moment,’ Frances said, making a swift escape before Mrs Talbot, a prickly character, could reach them.
Sarah had long suspected that Gwen Talbot disapproved of her, that she considered her unsuitable. She wondered if Mrs Talbot might be about to say something regarding the rights and wrongs of a vicar’s wife interrupting Sunday worship to air his personal correspondence. Behaviour unbecoming, perhaps. Inappropriate. It would be just like her to be the one person to find fault.
Sarah braced herself and forced a bright smile. ‘Mrs Talbot,’ she said. ‘How nice to see you. ’
Gwen Talbot nodded. ‘And you, Mrs Collingborne. We don’t often see you in church on a Sunday. ’
Sarah refused to let her smile slip. It was true; she wasn’t a regular, especially since Adam had been gone. Gwen Talbot wouldn’t be the only one to have noticed – but she would be the only one to say so.
‘It was very good of you to let us know about the Reverend Collingborne,’ Mrs Talbot went on. ‘We’re all very concerned. And yet, I can’t help thinking that the ones being held with your husband are fortunate in a way. There’ll be some, especially the younger ones, having a hard time of things. Just boys, some of them – too young to be at war, if you ask me. ’ Her voice showed signs of cracking. Gwen Talbot’s son had joined up and recently returned to the village wounded. ‘What you said . . . the letter. Your husband’s right about what he called “mental strain”. What’s going on inside can be harder to deal with sometimes than anything. ’
Sarah guessed that Mrs Talbot was talking about her son. Since his return he had kept to himself, and Sarah had barely seen him around the village.
‘I don’t suppose you find it easy,’ Mrs Talbot went on, ‘managing on your own. ’
Sarah didn’t. And yet she knew she was better off than many. ‘I count my blessings,’ she said. ‘Adam is safe, and that’s the main thing. ’
‘You’ll just want him back. Soon as. ’ She reached up and made another adjustment to her hat. It was past its best, the brim starting to fray, Sarah saw. ‘Whenever I’ve needed support in the past I’ve not had to ask twice, not where the vicar’s concerned,’ Mrs Talbot said. ‘He’s always been one to put the needs of others first, your husband. I’d be most grateful if you’d let him know I send my best wishes and that I keep him in my prayers. ’
Sarah thanked her and said she would. She watched the straw hat bob away, feeling somewhat thrown. This conversation was not what she had expected at all.
As the congregation dispersed, Sarah had the feeling her eyes had been opened in some way, as if she had seen another side to Gwen Talbot. An altogether softer side.
It got her thinking.
Chapter 3
P
AT HAD INTENDED TO go to church, thinking it would do her good to be among people. The new house, so far from the village, made her feel isolated – precisely what Bob had hoped for when he bought it. Before they moved in, there were signs her husband was on the way to becoming a changed man, more likely to bring her a morning cup of tea in bed than raise a hand to her – almost considerate.
Against her better judgement, she had allowed herself to hope that their move might signal a new beginning: happier, more peaceful times, an end of his constant belittling. No more beatings.
For years, her marriage to Bob had been akin to walking on the most delicate of eggshells, which constantly gave way beneath her. His lack of success had fed into his anger. He saw himself as a gifted writer, and yet for years he ’d been forced to do the kind of work he considered beneath him. It had made him resentful. He felt unacknowledged, unappreciated. Underpaid. When his first novel, intended to set him on the path to the literary career he felt he deserved, made little impact and generated none of the wealth he had anticipated, Pat bore the brunt of his rage and frustration.
As they got ready to move, however, things had shown definite signs of improvement. His latest novel was doing well and he seemed altogether more content, less prone to fly into a fury. He had even begun to show remorse for his previous behaviour.
But the spirit of cautious optimism in which she moved into the new house proved all too brief.
She only had herself to blame. She had become complacent, dared to think she was safe when she was not.
Bob had caught her out.
*
After the funeral, her friends from the WI had rallied round. ‘Come and stay with me,’ Erica had said. ‘I can’t stand to think of you alone in that big house in the middle of nowhere. Especially after . . . everything that happened there. ’ Erica looked concerned. ‘It’s filled with the wrong kind of memories now. ’
She was right – the house had its ghosts. One ghost, anyway.
‘It’s kind of you, but there are things I need to sort out there,’ Pat had said. It was at least half true. There were Bob’s belongings, and the sale of the house. She was due to meet with the solicitor to find out how she stood financially. ‘And I want to make sure I’m able to cope on my own. ’
She didn’t see why she wouldn’t manage. Being married to Bob had lent her a certain resilience, made her stronger than perhaps she seemed.
‘I know how glad I was to have company after Will died,’ Erica said. She ’d had her girls, Kate and Laura, and, lodging with her, Myra Rosen, who ’d taken over as the village doctor.
‘I need to face up to things,’ Pat replied. ‘I need to be independent. I’m on my own now and I have to learn to deal with it. ’
She told herself that she would not be alone forever, that Marek would survive the war and come home to her. As yet, she had received no reply to the last letter she had sent him – but she told herself not to worry. She could not even be sure her letter had reached him. If it had, he would have found some way of responding, to let her know he was safe and thinking of her.
In the days following the funeral, she was busy getting ready to move again. She arranged to put the house back on the market. She removed Bob’s things from the wardrobe in the bedroom they had shared and put them into the spare room. She would think of something useful to do with them now that clothes rationing had been introduced. She would have to start going through the papers in his study soon, too.
For the next few
days, she saw no one.
*
When Sunday came, she was up early. She put on the pale blue print dress Marek liked and applied face powder sparingly, wondering if make-up might soon be in short supply, like so many other things. She peered into the cracked little mirror propped up on the dressing table and teased a comb through her hair. I look better, she thought. Less anxious. No longer a woman in fear of her life.
The moment she stepped from the bedroom onto the landing, her mood changed, and she was transported back to the night when she had stood in the very same spot as Bob loomed over her.
‘You don’t need friends. You only need me. Now get back in the bedroom until I say you can come out. ’
She closed her eyes for a moment.
What was it Erica had said? The wrong kind of memories.
Shaken, she made her way downstairs and into the kitchen, no longer in the mood for church, not sure she could face the friends she knew would be looking out for her. She sat at the table in her blue dress, sun streaming through the back window, dust motes floating in the air. The teapot and her cup from breakfast were still out, and she poured what was left and took a drink even though it was almost cold. From a shelf on the wall next to the range came the sound of a clock ticking. Just go. Don’t let him hold you back. If she set off right away she could still be in Great Paxford in time for the service.
She got to her feet and went into the hall, automatically sidestepping the spot where Bob had lain.
Where he had died.
When she reached the front door, something held her back.
Knowing what she knew, had she any business going to a place of worship?
Chapter 4
T
HE VILLAGE WAS BATHED in sunshine, one or two enormous clouds dotted against the sky. In recent weeks, much to everyone’s relief, the German bombing raids seemed to have come to an end, and fewer people were leaving their homes in Liverpool and making their way into the countryside each night to seek sanctuary. On such a glorious summer day, under a brilliant blue sky, it was almost possible to imagine there was no war.
