by S Block
‘Like a jumble sale, but a good deal smarter,’ Pat said, aware that Frances would be after something a little more ambitious. ‘No piles of clothes on trestle tables for people to rummage through. I thought we could improve on that. We could have everything on rails, if we can get hold of some – shirts and blouses, trousers, skirts, knitwear. And an area for shoes – children’s feet grow so fast. I’ve often heard parents complain that they’re having to replace shoes that are practically brand new because their child has suddenly grown out of them. We could charge a modest amount, too – not so much that it would put people off. ’
‘Just children’s clothing?’ Erica asked.
Pat hesitated. ‘Well, no, although I think that would be a priority. ’
‘I think it’s a wonderful idea,’ Sarah said.
‘We could urge people to donate unwanted knitwear, and anything past its best can be unpicked and the wool salvaged,’ Alison suggested. ‘Put to good use for the items we’re knitting for our servicemen. ’
Frances suddenly had a zealous look about her. ‘This is really marvellous, ladies. ’
‘Lots of us have things at home we’re never going to wear, some in perfect condition,’ Pat said. She was thinking of the outfit she had worn on her wedding day and which had hung in the wardrobe ever since – the turquoise dress and matching coat, shot silk, the kind with a sheen that caught the light, bringing out different colours in the fabric. She had found it in a haberdasher’s in Manchester and made it up herself without using a pattern. All that work for a single outing. Someone else could perhaps benefit from it now. ‘We could have a stall for accessories, too. Scarves, belts, jewellery . . . anything people don’t want anymore. ’
‘What about menswear? I still have George’s things,’ Alison said. She blushed, as though ashamed to have been so sentimental. ‘I’ve never quite got round to doing anything with them, but now they could go to a good cause. ’
‘This is your chance,’ Frances said. ‘I can donate some of Peter’s, too. ’
‘I’m sure I read somewhere about a woman who had taken one of her husband’s suits and remodelled it into a rather smart two-piece for herself,’ Sarah said.
‘We could think about running a series of classes to teach people some of the basics of dressmaking,’ Pat said. ‘I used to do a bit, going back a few years now. ’ Her mother was a seamstress and Pat had acquired some of her expertise. When she was younger she ’d made a lot of her own clothes and had got rather good at altering things: changing a neckline, shortening sleeves, adding trim to hemlines to adjust the length. With a little imagination, it was amazing what could be achieved. ‘Perhaps we could get a sewing circle going,’ she suggested.
‘I’d be happy to do some darning,’ Steph said. ‘I seem to be endlessly fixing holes in Stan’s and Little Stan’s socks and work clothes. I’ve become quite the expert now that I can’t do so much on the farm. ’
The women nodded. A recent heart attack meant that Steph could no longer tackle any of the heavy manual work, and they all knew how much she missed it.
As they began to draw up a plan of action, Frances felt a glow of satisfaction. Once again, she had issued a clarion call and the response was nothing short of remarkable. By the end of the week, Alison and Erica would have notices up around the village advertising the WI sewing classes. Pat had agreed to come up with a structure for the sessions to ensure that any of their members keen to bring their sewing skills up to scratch would have the opportunity. Even those starting from nothing would emerge having learned something worthwhile. The whole thing would culminate in an ambitious clothing sale which Pat suggested they call ‘Fashion on the Ration’.
‘We could have done with Teresa here,’ Alison said, as the meeting broke up. ‘She has a good eye for style. ’
‘She sent word to say she’s a little under the weather,’ Frances said. ‘Something she ate, she thinks, nothing serious. ’
Sarah hung back to speak to her sister after the others had gone. ‘What did you make of Pat?’ she asked Frances.
‘Bright, full of life. Better than I’ve seen her in a long time. Without wishing to seem unkind, I can’t help thinking Bob’s death could well be the best thing to have happened to her. ’
‘She always seemed to carry an air of anxiety before,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s gone now – did you notice?’ It was as if Bob was a weight that had dragged her down, and without him she was lighter, unencumbered. ‘We knew things were bad at home for her, but it makes me wonder if it was even worse between them than we ever suspected. ’
‘Do we ever really know what goes on between two people in private?’ Frances sighed. ‘Pat was remarkably loyal to Bob. She didn’t complain. She never admitted to any of us how badly he treated her. We worked it out ourselves over time. ’
‘Do you think it was really loyalty that prevented her from telling us?’ Sarah asked. ‘Or was she simply too afraid to confide in anyone?’
‘Both, I suspect,’ Frances said. ‘She might have been embarrassed, too, perhaps. She had all kinds of reasons to say nothing, I’m sure. Perhaps she hoped that things would settle down. ’
Something came back to Sarah – a session at the telephone exchange when Pat had arrived for work late and a little breathless. Bob had brought her tea in bed that morning. His behaviour had become kinder, more considerate, she ’d told Sarah. He had even cooked for her. Sarah found it suspicious; in her experience, a leopard rarely changed its spots. Pat, however, seemed to think he was genuine.
‘Before they moved house, she did say he was hugely improved,’ Sarah said. ‘As if they were about to start afresh. A new home, a chance to put the past behind them. ’
And then, before they’d had time to settle into their new life, Bob was dead.
‘Well, she seemed in good spirits today but I’d be surprised if in the coming months she doesn’t have some setbacks,’ Frances said. ‘She will be bound to have her ups and downs. We need to remember that when it comes to putting on a brave face, she’s an expert. It’s what she’s been doing for years, after all. Let’s keep a close eye on her, without being too intrusive. ’
Sarah nodded. ‘We’ll make sure we’re there whenever she needs us. ’
Chapter 6
T
ERESA LUCAS FOUGHT TO suppress the wave of nausea that swept through her. ‘It doesn’t feel . . . normal,’ she said. ‘I can’t help thinking something must be seriously wrong – that I’m properly ill. ’
‘I do assure you, it’s quite normal,’ Dr Rosen said. Teresa opened her mouth to object. ‘Unpleasant, of course, but it will pass. ’
‘When?’ Teresa heard the desperation in her own voice.
‘In time. Women react differently to pregnancy, so it’s impossible to be exact but I’d expect to see an easing of symptoms by about twelve weeks. Fourteen, perhaps. ’
‘Fourteen weeks! There’ll be nothing left of me by then. ’ She was keeping so little down – almost anything she ate sent her dashing to the bathroom to bring it back up again.
‘Try to stick to foods that don’t make you sick. Simple things. Dry toast. A plain biscuit. Sometimes, it’s the smell of cooking that can trigger an episode, so be aware of the things you can’t tolerate and do what you can to avoid them for now. You must ensure you keep your fluid intake up. Water will help. Small sips, often. ’
Teresa sat motionless, turning over in her mind what she had been told. ‘Nothing can be done?’ She was incredulous. ‘I simply have to put up with it?’
‘I’m afraid so. As I said, it’s normal. It will pass. ’
‘And the baby?’ Teresa swallowed hard. ‘How can a child possibly thrive when its mother is barely eating?’
Dr Rosen smiled softly. ‘You mustn’t worry,’ she said. ‘Many mothers experience what you do, especially in their first pregnancy, and their babies are perfectly healthy. Try not to focus on it. You won’t help
yourself by fretting. ’
*
Teresa left the surgery a little comforted, but still feeling unwell. She walked slowly in the direction of the village’s main street, but at the junction she hesitated. She had been intending to shop for groceries, but simply thinking about food caused her stomach to spasm. The door to the butcher’s was open and Miriam Brindsley emerged and began sweeping the path in front of the shop. Last year, she had given birth to a daughter, Vivian. A surprise, Miriam had said – the most wonderful blessing. She hadn’t even known she was pregnant until Dr Campbell confirmed it. Miriam looked up from her sweeping and gave Teresa a wave. Teresa smiled back, thinking with a pang that Miriam couldn’t have suffered any of this dreaded morning sickness. If she had, she wouldn’t have needed a doctor to tell her she was pregnant.
Perhaps things were different with a second baby.
On an impulse, instead of heading home, Teresa turned in the opposite direction. The air was fresh, the sun breaking through after the earlier downpour. A walk might make her feel better. As she passed St Mark’s, she caught sight of what looked like the back of Erica Campbell’s head, disappearing out of sight. Visiting Will’s grave, no doubt.
Seeing Erica served as a sharp reminder to Teresa that she had much to be thankful for. She did not need to look far to see loss and suffering all around. Much of it was down to the war, of course, but not all. Lung cancer had cut short Will Campbell’s life; in what seemed to be no time at all he had gone from being a busy GP to a man in serious decline, and the pioneering treatment he ’d received had not been enough to save him.
Teresa paused for a minute, looking up at the church, conscious that behind her lay the remains of what had been the homes of the Campbell family and of Pat and Bob Simms. Both properties had been destroyed when the Spitfire crashed onto the village. On our wedding day. She and Nick, surrounded by friends, the celebrations in full swing, a few yards away. A miracle, Teresa thought, that no one had been killed on the ground. There but for the grace of God . . .
She kept walking, enjoying the fresh air in her lungs, starting to feel almost like her old self again. She was no longer fighting the urge to be sick, which was a distinct improvement.
Since discovering she was pregnant – the moment itself marked by violent retching – Teresa had quickly learned just how debilitating the early stages of her condition could be.
Whenever she had thought in her younger years about how it might feel to be pregnant, she had pictured herself glowing. Blooming. More recently, she had allowed herself to dream about the beautiful moment when she broke the news to Nick that their first child was on the way. Instead, Nick, the wing commander at Tabley Wood, had found out when he returned from the base unexpectedly one day and discovered her on her knees in the bathroom, her head over the toilet bowl.
She allowed herself a wry smile. It was nothing like she had imagined, and yet the distinct lack of romance had done nothing to dent his delight.
Teresa continued to the outskirts of the village and, as she grew nearer Alison’s house, she decided to pay an impromptu call. When she had first come to Great Paxford and was teaching at the local school, Teresa lodged with Alison, and the women had become good friends. Teresa trusted her.
She was the only one who knew about her past.
The front door was open, and Teresa called a greeting and came inside, just as Alison emerged from the kitchen in an apron, wiping floury hands on a cloth. The smell of cooking made Teresa’s stomach churn in protest.
‘I was passing and thought I’d drop in,’ Teresa began, ‘but I can see you’re busy. ’
‘Wrestling with that trusty standby, a Woolton pie. ’ Alison frowned. ‘Which may or may not be improved with the addition of a little Marmite. I can’t help feeling I’m taking a risk there. ’
‘It will be lovely, I’m sure. You always know how to get the best out of a dish. ’
‘Have you time for a cup of tea?’ Alison asked.
Teresa shook her head. ‘Not for me, thanks, but you go ahead. ’ She noticed the fresh flowers on the windowsill, the cloth on the table in the front room: two places set. ‘Are you expecting company? I shouldn’t hold you up. ’
‘Not for a little while. ’ Alison took off her apron, hooked it over the kitchen door and gestured with a smile for Teresa to sit down. ‘How are you? I feel as if I’ve hardly seen you since the funeral, and we didn’t get a chance to talk properly then. ’
‘No, I went straight home afterwards. Any news of Pat?’
‘She came to the committee meeting, and she does seem to be coping well. The house is up for sale – she says she’s moving back into the village. ’
Teresa nodded. ‘Good. She’ll be better off once she’s got her friends close by again. ’
Alison got to her feet. ‘I just need to check something,’ she said and disappeared into the kitchen.
Teresa heard the sound of a drawer opening, something clattering onto the counter. ‘Who are you entertaining?’ she called out. ‘Anyone . . . special?’ She already had a shrewd idea who the guest was likely to be.
Alison came back into the room, her cheeks flushed. ‘If you must know, I’ve invited John for something to eat. ’
John Smith was one of the trekkers who ’d been coming to the village to avoid the bombing raids on Liverpool, a regular at the soup kitchen run by the women of the WI. There, he and Alison had become friendly – something Alison, who went to great lengths to guard her private life, was reluctant to admit to.
‘All I can say is that it’s about time,’ Teresa said, with a laugh. ‘I’ve always thought he’s a lovely man, and it’s obvious how much he likes you. ’
‘It’s just a meal,’ Alison told her. She sounded almost prim. ‘Nothing more—’
Teresa laughed. ‘Honestly, Alison, it’s me you’re talking to! You don’t need to make everything sound so formal. I know you like him – and why wouldn’t you?’ Alison seemed about to object, but Teresa kept going. ‘Where’s the harm in enjoying the company of someone you get along with? Especially now, when nothing feels certain or lasting and everything can change in a moment. You need look no further than Pat. ’
Or Erica, so recently widowed. Or her daughter, Kate, whose own husband was killed within weeks of her wedding, before they’d even had time to move into their first house. Or Frances, whose life had seemed almost charmed until her husband, Peter, died in a car crash.
‘I really don’t want to be the subject of gossip,’ Alison said.
‘Of course not – but when happiness is in such short supply, find it where you can, I say, and hang onto it. ’ She smiled. ‘You might as well simply enjoy spending time with John, and if one day the friendship you have leads to something more . . . ’
‘I’ve tried to imagine myself out for a stroll with John,’ Alison eventually said. ‘Attending social occasions, simply as friends. ’ She shook her head. ‘Imagine how that ’d be received. ’
Teresa hesitated. She knew that some of the village had had a hostile reaction to the arrival of the trekkers, particularly those who, like John, had black skin. Having grown up in Liverpool, Teresa was fairly used to people with a different skin colour – but she knew well enough that a small village would be altogether more narrow-minded in its outlook.
‘I think it’s better to keep things as they are. ’ Alison sounded firm. ‘A discreet friendship, nothing more. ’
Teresa hesitated. ‘I remember when I met Nick – it was obvious what a good man he was, funny and decent and kind, and yet I held back. I’m not sure I quite believed things could work out between us. You were the one who encouraged me. Had you not, I might easily have let something wonderful slip through my fingers. ’ She looked at Alison earnestly. ‘I would hate to see you miss out on what could be a really lovely friendship, at the very least. Why not give it a chance and see how things work out?’
Alison didn’t an
swer. The wireless was on low in the background, and at the mention of a communiqué from the Air Ministry regarding action over France the day before, both Alison and Teresa turned towards it.
‘Fighters of the RAF were again over the Channel and Northern France in strength,’ the announcer began. ‘Blenheim aircraft of the Bomber Command, which accompanied them, bombed the marshalling yard at Hazebrouck, which handles the traffic to the Channel ports. Many German fighters were encountered and heavy losses were inflicted on them. Our fighters destroyed thirty of the enemy aircraft. A number of others were severely damaged by our fighters and by our bombers. One of our aircraft – a fighter – is missing. ’
‘You can see why I worry so much,’ Teresa said. ‘Someone, somewhere, will have received bad news about their loved one. ’
Alison nodded. ‘How is Nick?’
‘I wish he wasn’t flying – but he’s a pilot, it’s what he does. I try not to worry too much. ’ In truth, her anxiety was crippling at times, keeping her awake at night, invading her dreams once she did manage to sleep. She was haunted by the image of the Spitfire lying broken in the village, with its pilot, a boy surely too young to be flying, lifeless in the cockpit.
It had become the enduring memory of her wedding day.
Sometimes she didn’t know what made her feel more ill – the morning sickness, or the fear.
‘Nick’s an excellent pilot,’ Alison said.
Teresa nodded. ‘If that was all that mattered, I wouldn’t worry. ’ She hesitated. For a moment, she thought about telling Alison she was pregnant, explaining how that was adding to her fears, how she worried about their child growing up without a father, about her trying to raise a baby on her own – but she and Nick had agreed to keep the news to themselves for the time being.
Instead, she steeled herself and said brightly, ‘We both know how rare it is to find someone special. ’ She was thinking once more of John. ‘A connection, if you like. Somebody you trust, who accepts you as you are. That’s why I’d urge you to keep an open mind. ’ She hesitated. ‘I’d be hard pressed to tell you what love is, but I do know how it feels. And I’m sure you do too. ’
