by S Block
And day by day, Miriam had begun to believe him. Over time, David had grown happier, all the signs pointing to him being more settled. Bryn now took on most of the butchery work; the cold store, where he could be heard whistling as he sawed and sliced, had become his domain. But there was no doubt that David was now in charge in the shop.
‘I was thinking how much easier ration day would be if I got things ready in advance,’ David said now. ‘I could make up the rations and have them waiting when the customers come in. Everything labelled – name, amount – in alphabetical order so you put your hand straight on it. The customer hands over the coupons, they get their allowance. ’
‘It would take a bit of work getting things organised. ’ Miriam sounded doubtful.
‘I’ve thought about that,’ David said. ‘I’ve already got a record – names, coupons. If the allowance changes, I can easily amend the figures. So, on ration day, I make an early start. ’ He looked at Bryn. ‘We make an early start. Crack of dawn. Work together, getting enough bacon sliced, while I make up the orders. We open early, too. At least a few of our regulars will come in first thing. There’s nothing to it. It means a bit of extra effort beforehand but I don’t mind that. I reckon it’ll go like clockwork and everyone will be a lot happier. ’ He smiled. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘I reckon you might be on to something,’ Bryn said.
David nodded. ‘Thanks, Dad. Now that’s sorted, I’ll have a think about next door. ’
Bryn looked puzzled. ‘Next door?’
‘Taking over the Collinses’ place and turning it into a bakery for Ma. ’ Miriam’s jaw dropped open in surprise. ‘I’m joking, Ma. ’ He laughed. ‘Can’t believe you fell for that one. Although, come to think of it, it would be an awful shame to leave it standing empty . . . ’
Chapter 8
S
ARAH DECIDED TO CALL on Teresa before doing her shopping. She hadn’t seen her since Bob’s funeral, when she ’d been sitting on her own at the back of the church. Afterwards, there had been no sign of her.
As Sarah rang the doorbell, she looked up at the house. Its curtains were closed, and for a moment she wondered if Teresa was out.
At last the door opened, revealing Teresa, with the heavy-eyed look of someone who had recently roused themselves from sleep and was not yet properly awake. Her blouse was creased, her dark hair on end, a single strand plastered to her pale brow.
Sarah had never seen Teresa look anything less than immaculate. She wasn’t sure she had ever seen her without her trademark red lipstick.
‘I’m ever so sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you, but Frances said you’ve not been feeling well, and I thought I’d drop by to see if you needed anything. ’
‘Oh. That’s kind, thank you,’ Teresa said. ‘Do come in for a minute. ’
Sarah followed her into the front room, where Teresa drew the curtains and let in some light. On the settee, cushions were piled up at one end, a crocheted blanket thrown aside. Teresa straightened things up, plumping the cushions, shaking out the blanket and draping it over the back of the settee. It seemed obvious she had been having a nap, and Sarah felt a stab of guilt for having woken her.
‘I really didn’t mean to disturb you,’ Sarah said. ‘I won’t stay. ’
‘Oh, I don’t mind. Sit down for a minute. ’ She attempted a smile. ‘It’s good of you to come. ’
Whatever was ailing Teresa seemed to have knocked her sideways.
‘I can make tea if you’d like some,’ Teresa offered, as they sat down.
‘I won’t, thank you. Let me make some for you, though. ’
Teresa made a face. ‘I can’t face it. Just the thought turns my stomach. ’
Sarah looked concerned. ‘Is it some kind of food poisoning?’
Teresa shook her head; she looked utterly washed out.
‘How long have you been feeling like this?’
‘Off and on, a few weeks. ’ Teresa caught Sarah’s concerned look. ‘You’ve caught me at a particularly bad moment. I’m not always so . . . gruesome. ’ She got to her feet, peered at her reflection in the mirror and made a half-hearted attempt at a smile. ‘Heavens, I look as if I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. ’
‘Have you seen the doctor?’ Sarah asked.
Teresa looked away. ‘I’m perfectly well,’ she said, hesitantly. ‘Really, there’s nothing to be worried about. ’
Sarah studied Teresa for a moment, her paleness, her tiredness, the slight shift in the way she held herself.
A sudden thought hit her.
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘You’re not . . . ?’
Teresa flushed, and Sarah knew at once she had guessed correctly.
‘You’re pregnant,’ she said, her eyes widening.
Teresa broke out into a proper smile. ‘Well . . . we haven’t told anybody yet. ’
‘Oh, but . . . that’s wonderful. Congratulations! You must be thrilled. ’
Teresa returned to her place on the settee. She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I am – or, rather I would be, if I didn’t feel so awful. Morning sickness. I never imagined it could be quite so debilitating. As for the “morning” bit – that’s something of a sick joke, if you’ll pardon the pun. I am being ill at all hours of the day and night. ’
‘It sounds dreadful, but . . . it’s normal, isn’t it? I mean, nothing you need worry about?’
‘So I’ve been told. All I can say is it doesn’t feel normal. I can barely eat, I can’t even face cooking – Nick’s having to eat in the mess at Tabley Wood. ’ She winced. ‘At least he’s guaranteed a decent meal. I do my best, but I wouldn’t call myself the world’s most accomplished cook, nowhere near. Anyway, Nick’s so delighted at the prospect of being a father he doesn’t mind that I’m in no fit state to feed him at home. It won’t be for ever. Soon, I’ll be back to turning out one of my trusty stews. But, for now . . . ’
Sarah smiled. ‘I’m so pleased things are working out for you,’ she said. ‘You deserve it, both of you. ’
She thought back to Nick’s arrival in the village. The new wing commander at Tabley Wood, drafted in to replace his married predecessor, who had been hurriedly moved on following the scandal over his affair with young Laura Campbell.
Nick had stayed at the vicarage initially with Sarah and Adam. What Sarah felt for Nick had been . . . complicated. The spark between them had been undeniable. Dangerous. She could easily have fallen for him. There was a moment she would never forget when she came close to risking everything. Her marriage. Adam.
‘I haven’t told Alison yet,’ Teresa said, ‘so would you keep it to yourself for now?’
‘Of course. ’
There was another pause, and then Teresa spoke again. She seemed keen to have someone to confide in. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready to be a mother. The idea of it terrifies me. ’
‘You’ll be wonderful, I’m sure. ’
She nodded, unconvinced, and yawned. ‘Sorry, I’m wiped out. Anyway, enough about me. What about Adam – any word from him?’
Sarah told her about the letter she ’d been tempted to keep to herself, and how pleased she was to have shared it with the congregation at St Mark’s. ‘I toyed with the idea of not telling a soul, not even Frances – I’m not even sure why. Something to do with how much I miss him, I think, and wanting – in ways I can’t even explain – to keep him to myself. ’ She glanced at Teresa. ‘Selfish of me, I know, when his parishioners are every bit as anxious for news as I am. ’
Teresa nodded. ‘It makes sense to me. ’
‘The odd thing is how much better I feel now. People have been so kind, and I suppose it’s brought home to me the extent of the love there is in the village for Adam. ’ Sarah smiled. ‘I feel almost overwhelmed – supported, I suppose. I don’t think I’d properly appreciated until now that it’s not just my husband being held in a pris
on camp, it’s our vicar. It’s not only difficult and upsetting for me, but for the entire community. ’ She thought for a moment, trying to put into words what had been going round her head. ‘It’s made me feel as if I want to do more. ’
‘In what sense?’
‘Oh, I don’t know – open my eyes to what other people are going through. See where help is needed and do what I can. ’ Be more like Adam. She smiled. ‘Do I sound like some dreadful do-gooder?’
Teresa shook her head. ‘Not at all. Adam would be proud. ’
Chapter 9
P
AT WAS BUSY PACKING, emptying the bookshelves in the front room and placing everything carefully into chests, getting ready to leave the house she had moved into only three months before. As she worked, she thought back to the rainy April day that she and Bob had taken possession of what was intended to be their dream home. Bob in a rare good mood, talking about a new beginning, Pat almost believing him.
Almost.
She stopped what she was doing for a moment, remembering Bob hobbling from room to room on his bad leg. ‘Doesn’t it feel good to have a place of our own again?’ he ’d said. ‘No one breathing down our necks the whole time. No more having to put up with that nosy old bat watching my every move. ’
Joyce. Joyce, who worshipped Bob.
‘Not a minute’s peace. How I managed to get anything done with her wittering on at me I’ll never know. Oh, Mr Simms, what an absolute privilege to witness an artist at work. ’ Pat had been about to speak up in defence of Joyce, but Bob hadn’t finished. ‘No neighbours listening through the walls, sticking their noses into our business. ’
The Campbells. Erica and Will, who had been good friends to Pat.
‘I could hardly breathe in the midst of all that. Good riddance to the lot of them. If I never set foot in Great Paxford again, it’ll be too soon. ’
Pat had stayed quiet, watching the rain beat against the windows, the removals men hurrying in and out, trailing dirt into the hall.
Pat would not have chosen somewhere so big. The rooms and their high ceilings seemed to dwarf the modest amount of furniture they had, and she suspected it would be impossible to heat the place in winter. Not that Bob had asked for her opinion. By the time he told her he ’d found somewhere suitable, the sale was already going through.
‘Thought it would be a nice surprise for you,’ he ’d said, pleased with himself.
Not that it mattered now. In a few days, she would be gone. She had found a cottage to rent in Great Paxford, a little place not far from the village school. She intended to move within the week, impatient to get away.
She need never see this place again.
She reached for a stack of hefty tomes and put them to one side – a series of numbered volumes to do with military campaigns that she remembered Bob sending away for, proudly lining them up on a shelf like soldiers in their smart green jackets embossed with gold. They were expensive looking, more for show than anything. After all, since when was Bob interested in the Napoleonic wars? As far as she knew, he had not so much as leafed through them, let alone actually read any of the books. Well, they were of no interest to her and she had no intention of keeping them. Perhaps a reference library might consider taking them.
As she packed away the last few books, one fell open and an envelope with her name on it fluttered out. Bob’s handwriting. She stared at it, her breath caught. For a while, when they first started seeing each other, Bob had often written to her. A few lines on scraps of paper that he would slip into her bag or inside the pocket of her coat for her to find once they had parted. Sometimes it was a simple Love you, B, on the back of a cinema ticket. Or a few lines begging her to save him from what he called the misery of his freezing garret. That had always made her smile, since his lodgings comprised a warm and comfortable room on the ground floor of an elegant house where the landlady fussed endlessly over him. Only you can rescue me from this living hell, he would write, tongue firmly in cheek. It was Bob’s way of letting her know he wanted them to be together. Within weeks of their first meeting he asked her to marry him and, though she was taken aback at the speed of his proposal, she ’d found herself saying yes.
When she thought back to those days, it seemed a lifetime ago, an entirely different world. When had things changed? Certainly once they were married, the gestures she had found so endearingly romantic ceased. For a while, she ’d continued to check her pockets and under the pillow, anywhere she thought a scrap of paper might be hidden. When she dropped hints and said how much she always loved getting one of his notes, Bob seemed nonplussed, a little put out, even – as if she was being critical of him. Why on earth would he write, he wanted to know, now that they were under the same roof and could have a conversation whenever they needed to?
She never mentioned it again.
Now she picked up the envelope and stared at the familiar, almost flamboyant handwriting, not sure she wanted to read whatever lay inside. Perhaps she should simply tuck it back inside the book it had fallen from, or throw it away – bury it with the kitchen waste. A voice inside her head warned against raking up the past.
And yet, she couldn’t help her curiosity. She took the single sheet of paper from its sheath.
I am writing this on the train, it began. Pat felt her heart rate quicken. I’m on my way to Bradford (shades of Wigan Pier). Opposite is a man sucking noisily on a pipe. I have never studied pipe-smoking at such close range and find it fascinating, the rigmarole involved to get the thing in a fit state to light, only to take a few puffs before it’s out again. Not much smoking being done and a good deal of ash deposited on the front of a perfectly good suit jacket! As you can see, I have time on my hands. And so, my dearest Patricia, in the spirit of being productive and writerly I have decided to compile a list of some of the things I love about you:
That smile of yours.
Your eyes, the colour of forget-me-nots.
She felt suddenly dizzy. My dearest Patricia . . . the things I love about you. She pushed the letter back into its envelope. Some things were too painful.
As she steadied herself, she had the feeling that Bob was close by – watching, gloating, enjoying her discomfort, still managing to knock her off-balance when she least expected it.
No, she had no desire to be reminded of how things had once been between them. It was the past. Over. The romance that had swept her up once seemed so misleading now; he had used flattery and a few well-chosen words to reel her in. And she had been foolish enough to trust he was the man he appeared to be.
She closed her eyes for a moment. The sooner I’m out of this house, the better. She went into the kitchen and pushed the letter deep inside the bin.
She was still packing when the doorbell went, startling her. She glanced at the clock and remembered that Erica had said she would call and help with any chores that needed to be done.
‘There’s not very much to do,’ Pat said as she showed her in. They stood in the front room, surveying the boxes.
‘How long before you move out?’ Erica asked.
‘Not long. Only a few more days. I’m just waiting to hear back from the removals people. ’
Erica nodded. ‘It’s fortunate you don’t have to wait for this place to sell first. ’
‘I’m not sure I could stand to. ’
They went into the kitchen and Pat filled the kettle to make tea. The back door was open and Erica stood on the step, watching a blackbird peck about in the border. ‘It’s a lovely spot,’ she said. ‘Peaceful. It’ll make someone a lovely home. ’
Pat sighed. ‘I thought things might be different here,’ she said. ‘New house, new start. Bob was full of it. I can’t remember the last time I’d seen him so buoyant. ’ She glanced at Erica. ‘The move seemed to mean so much to him. I think he genuinely believed that once we got here and were free of all the distractions he disliked so much – other people, mainly – things would somehow be al
l right. Better, at least. ’
‘Can a man like Bob ever change?’ Erica asked.
‘That’s something I constantly I asked myself. I hoped so, but I was always cautious. ’ She hesitated. The letter had shaken her, and it seemed to help to talk it out. ‘He could be very charming – plausible, I suppose. Look how easily he took in poor Joyce. All those months living at close quarters and she suspected nothing. In her view, he was wonderful, a good husband. ’ She sighed again. ‘He knew how to put on a front when it mattered, present the right face. ’ We both did. ‘It may sound strange but when he was at his worst, at least I knew where I was with him. Any show of kindness made me wonder what he was up to. I learned to never quite trust him. It wasn’t safe. ’
‘Oh, Pat, I wish I’d been able to do more. ’
‘No one could have done anything, and he knew it. ’
Erica reached out and gently touched her arm. ‘It’s over now. You’re free. That’s the important thing. ’
Was she, though, or would Bob continue to haunt her? Would he find a way to punish her for hating him? For loving Marek?
Pat looked up at her friend. ‘The night he died, we ’d had an argument. He didn’t want me to go out, even though I hadn’t seen a soul for weeks. He forbade me, and . . . well, it was one of the few occasions I defied him. ’
