A Woman's Courage

by S Block

  ‘Oh, God, no. ’

  Miriam dropped to her knees, panic washing over her. ‘Bryn, Bryn. ’ She took hold of his hand and squeezed. His brow was clammy, his skin a strange colour.

  ‘No, dear God,’ she whispered. ‘No!’

  Chapter 16

  S

  ARAH HAD TIME ON her hands. She was due at the ‘Stitch in Time’ class later but the morning was free. At home, left to her own devices, she knew she was likely to fret about Adam and imagine the worst, which would only leave her feeling even more anxious. What seemed to help more than anything, she had found, was spending time with other people – focusing on their concerns, rather than her own. Her recent conversation with Joyce had unexpectedly lifted her spirits and reminded her that there was another visit she had been meaning to make. She got ready and went to see Gwen Talbot.

  She ’d not been sure how she would be received, knowing how sharp Gwen could sometimes be, but she seemed pleased to see her, and showed her into the front room at once.

  It was the first time Sarah had been inside the house, and she stood for a moment taking in her surroundings, aware of the steady ticking of the grandfather clock that occupied an alcove on one side of the tiled fireplace. Opposite was a cabinet crammed with ornaments and a distinctive blue and white Wedgwood tea set. The mantelpiece was lined with photographs in ornate frames, one of a striking young girl with a wide smile and hair that tumbled in waves past her shoulders. Sarah was looking down at it when Gwen appeared, carrying a tea tray.

  Gwen nodded at the picture. ‘I looked a bit different when I was young, didn’t I?’

  Sarah’s eyes widened. Gwen had been a beauty in her younger days.

  ‘I was sixteen when that was taken,’ Gwen told her. ‘I’d just met Alan. ’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Sarah said. ‘You look so . . . carefree. ’

  Gwen smiled, a little wistful. ‘When I look at some of the old pictures, I hardly recognise myself. Not a care in the world. Then life got hold of me and . . . ’ She fell silent.

  Sarah waited a moment. ‘It must have been very hard when you lost your husband. ’

  ‘Yes, it changed me. Changed the whole world, I suppose. I didn’t feel the same anymore about anything. You get on with things, you have to, but when I buried my husband I lost a bit of myself too, if you can understand that. ’ She reached for a heavy silver frame and handed it to Sarah. ‘That’s us, on our wedding day. Alan was a good-looking man. He could have had his pick of the girls, but it was me he loved. We ’d only been out twice when he asked me to marry him. ’ She smiled at the memory. ‘Went down on one knee at the bus stop, daft thing. ’

  They ended up talking for hours, Gwen confiding in Sarah her worries about her son, Ronald, following his discharge from the army on medical grounds. He was still in bed today, she said, sounding embarrassed. ‘I was so relieved to get him home,’ she said. ‘I thought, that’s it, he’s safe now, I’ll look after him. But he’s not right . . . in his mind, you know. That’s what the war’s done for him. ’ She was quiet for a moment. ‘I keep thinking it’ll be all right if I just give him time. Now I’m not so sure. ’

  ‘Is there anything that can be done – have you spoken to Dr Rosen?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘The trouble with my Ron is that he’s stubborn, seems to think he doesn’t need any help. ’ She frowned. ‘He has this way of disappearing without a word. The back door slams shut and he’s gone. Never says where he’s been, what he’s been doing. When I ask all I get is, “Thinking.” Thinking about what? I suppose about what happened to him when he was away – but surely that won’t help. Seems to me that thinking is sometimes the worst thing you can do. It sends you mad. I know all about that from when Alan died. ’ After a moment, she sighed and said, ‘At least I’ve no worries about my youngest, Mary. She’s in the WAAF at a station near Newark, and doing well for herself. Ronald, though . . . ’ Her brow was creased with concern.

  ‘You can’t sit here worrying,’ Sarah told her. ‘Do you think it might help if you had something to take your mind off everything? Why don’t you think about coming to the WI sewing classes? There’s one today, or I could call for you next week, if you like. ’

  Gwen shook her head. ‘I can sew already,’ she said. ‘I don’t need teaching. ’

  ‘In that case, you might be of help to Pat. She’s also had a lot to contend with lately. ’

  Gwen’s expression hardened. ‘You’d never know, would you? Her husband isn’t even cold in the ground and she’s gadding about the village like the cat that’s got the cream. ’

  ‘She’s not exactly gadding about . . . ’

  ‘They say she’s done very nicely out of it, come into a big pile of money. ’

  ‘We shouldn’t forget she lost her husband in the most shocking circumstances,’ Sarah said slowly. ‘No amount of money can make up for that. ’

  Gwen pursed her lips. ‘I went to Mr Simms’ funeral, and I couldn’t help noticing how Mrs Simms carried on. Up at that altar, not the least bit sorry. Never broke down, didn’t shed a single tear. Some might call it dignified, but if you ask me it was downright callous. And now she’s floating about the village like she owns the place, making speeches at the WI, running sewing classes. She has this big smile on her face whenever you see her. ’ She shook her head. ‘How can you smile when you’ve just lost your husband? I couldn’t. ’

  ‘I suppose we all deal with grief in different ways,’ Sarah said, uncomfortable about the turn the conversation had taken. She suspected Gwen had already had plenty to say around the village on the subject of Pat and her inappropriate smiling. It must be hard, she supposed, for a woman whose own husband’s death had affected her so much, to see how strong Pat remained, how well she coped.

  ‘Makes you think,’ Gwen said. ‘Maybe she was glad to see the back of him. ’

  *

  Frances was in the bedroom sorting through the contents of her wardrobe, Sarah watching her from the doorway. ‘I’m actually feeling quite positive about this whole clothes rationing business,’ Frances said.

  ‘You must be the only one. ’ Sarah sighed. ‘I’ve never heard so many people complain as much as they are about clothing coupons, although the thinking behind it all seems sound. The idea is to free up workers who ’d be making civilian clothes so that they can take on war-related work. ’

  ‘It’s certainly made me realise how much I have that I no longer need. ’ Frances removed a satin evening dress from its hanger and flung it onto the bed. ‘This can go. ’

  Sarah retrieved it. ‘Are you sure? It’s exquisite. ’ She studied the label and let out a small gasp. ‘You do know it’s a Schiaparelli?’

  Frances shrugged. ‘I have one or two of hers. I remember wearing that one when Peter took me to London to celebrate my fortieth. We stayed at the Ritz. I shan’t imagine I shall ever have cause to wear it again. ’

  ‘You can’t get rid of it,’ Sarah protested. ‘At least think about having it altered, made into something more practical. ’

  Frances looked amused. ‘Just give me a moment while I try to come up with an occasion when an impossibly glamorous evening gown might be practical. ’

  Sarah had already slid it back on a hanger and was putting it back in the wardrobe. ‘Isn’t that the purpose of the WI sewing initiative, to find clever ways of remodelling old clothes?’

  Frances nodded. ‘I’m not sure even Pat – who is an extremely clever dressmaker, by the way – could think of what to do with a slightly extravagant evening gown. However, if it will keep you happy, I shall hang onto it. For the time being. ’

  ‘How did yesterday’s first “Stitch in Time” session go?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘A resounding success. Steph was on darning duty and took Teresa under her wing to show her the basics. Alison led a little group in the art of embroidery. Pat seemed completely in her element, advising on everythi
ng from simple repairs to quite challenging alterations. We had a wide range of abilities and something useful to offer everyone. ’

  Sarah was taken aback. ‘Everyone? Don’t tell me you were sewing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with a needle in your hand. ’ When they were children, despite their mother’s best efforts, Frances had never shown an interest, nor any patience, for needlework of any kind.

  Frances gave her sister a withering look. ‘I was there in my capacity as chair to ensure it all went smoothly, rather than as a participant. ’

  ‘What if Noah needs the hem of his trousers let down?’ Sarah teased. ‘How will you manage it?’

  ‘Claire already fixes that sort of thing. ’ Frances pulled an embroidered blouse from the wardrobe and inspected it. ‘Ah, there’s a button missing on the cuff, which is probably why I stopped wearing this. ’

  ‘You could always take it to the next “Stitch in Time”, and mend it yourself. ’

  Frances ignored the remark. ‘I was expecting to see you there yesterday. ’

  ‘I had every intention of coming,’ Sarah said, ‘but I went to see Gwen Talbot and found I lost track of time. ’

  Frances raised her eyebrows. ‘Gwen Talbot – whatever for?’

  ‘I think she needs someone to talk to. ’

  ‘Goodness me. Well, we’ll make a vicar’s wife of you yet. ’

  Sarah smiled. Then, retrieving a blouse with puff sleeves and delicate pearl buttons from under a coat on the bed, she asked, ‘Don’t you want this?’

  ‘I’ve not worn it for ages. I never really felt it suited me. It’s the wrong shade of green. ’

  Sarah held it up and peered at her reflection in the mirror. ‘It might do me. ’

  ‘The stitching on the collar needs looking at. ’

  Sarah inspected it. ‘I’ll soon put that right. I can do it at next week’s sewing session. I have a shirt of Adam’s that’s frayed at the collar and I thought I’d ask Pat’s advice on how best to repair it. ’

  It had also occurred to her to have a quiet word with Pat, let her know what Gwen, and no doubt the women Gwen counted as her friends, were saying about her.

  Frances stopped what she was doing. ‘Anything more from Adam?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘Nothing. I don’t know what to make of it. It’s been weeks since his last letter. Why doesn’t he write?’

  ‘There could be all kinds of reasons. Perhaps he is writing and the letters aren’t getting through. ’ Frances gave a helpless shrug. ‘I’m afraid we can only guess at what’s going on, and I’m not sure that’s always constructive. ’

  ‘I can’t help thinking about the camp, wondering what the conditions there are really like. I have so little to go on from his letters. ’

  ‘I expect there’s only so much he can say and, of course, he doesn’t want to worry you. ’

  The night before, unable to sleep, her mind refusing to switch off, Sarah had got up and gone into the kitchen where she sat for a while drinking tea, remembering the last night she and Adam had spent together, when they had made love and lain awake talking into the early hours.

  ‘It’s not knowing that’s the hardest thing. If only I had a better sense of what he’s dealing with – not to mention how long he’ll be there – perhaps I might feel less anxious. I spend hours thinking about how he’s living, what they’re giving him to eat. I don’t expect the Nazis are keeping him warm and well fed. Do you?’

  ‘Try not to torment yourself,’ Frances replied. ‘In my experience, the worst thing you can do is give your imagination free rein. It can be an unruly beast, more likely to stoke up irrational fear than bring comfort. I understand, really I do, but you could tie yourself in knots thinking the worst. I can only begin to imagine how hard it is for you, this not knowing, but all you can do is trust that Adam is able to take care of himself, even in the most trying of circumstances. Nobody knows him better than you do, Sarah. You know his strengths, his capacity for dealing with whatever comes his way. If anyone can manage the privations of a POW camp, Adam can. And he’ll be doing what he knows best, helping others get through the experience. He has his faith, remember, and I’ve no doubt it will serve him well in these testing times. All I’d say is try not to worry too much, however impossible that may seem. Keep yourself busy – sew! – and, above all, choose to think the best, not the worst. ’

  Chapter 17

  M

  Y DARLING MAREK,

  You must think me mad, writing to you when I don’t even know where you are and have no way of finding out. This is a letter I can never send. But it’s been so long since I heard from you. Each day I wait for the post in the hope of something. Anything. A few words to say you’re alive, that you haven’t forgotten me, that you still love me. What I fear the most is that in the time we’ve been apart, your feelings might have changed. It’s as if you’ve vanished and I have no idea where, or how, to begin searching for you.

  She was no longer where Marek expected her to be either, she realised. Not that it made any difference. If he wrote, his letter would find her, wherever in Great Paxford she happened to be living.

  How I hate this war for taking you from me. At times I feel I could lose my mind thinking about you, willing you to come back to me, and all the while hearing nothing.

  The silence is terrible.

  I take comfort from the memories I have. Our time together. Do you remember the day we met? I do, as clear as if it were yesterday.

  If I close my eyes I can see it in a series of snapshots, some sharp, others not quite in focus. A clear sky, sun on my face as I walked home through the village. Up ahead, soldiers, a few of the local men drinking outside the Black Horse. Voices, an accent that was unfamiliar. A blur of uniforms, glasses filled with ale. Shapes, nothing distinct.

  No hint of what was to come.

  Nothing to say my life was about to change.

  For once, I wasn’t in a hurry. Bob was away, reporting on the war, and I had no one to answer to, no need to rush home as I usually did. No reason to feel anxious about being late, or for knots to form in my stomach at the thought of what Bob would say when I got in.

  He was always so strict when it came to timekeeping. Mine, anyway. While he was free to come and go as he pleased, I was fettered. Whenever I left the house, I was conscious of the precise time I had to be back. No ifs or buts. Those were the rules. I understood what was required and the likely consequences if I defied them. And yet, there were so many times I rolled in late, infuriating him. He seemed to think I did it on purpose. I didn’t. It was just impossible to live within the constraints he set and do all that I needed to. Innocent things, like the shifts I did at the telephone exchange. We needed the money and I enjoyed the work, but Bob would never have approved and so I kept them secret. He caught me out, of course, and there was quite a scene.

  I was never able to keep things secret from him.

  Sooner or later, he always caught me out.

  Pat paused for a moment as she recalled the control Bob had exerted, how every aspect of her life had come under relentless scrutiny. Where she went, who she saw, how she spent every bit of housekeeping money; all of it subjected to examination and criticism. The pressure on her had been so great it was bound to rupture in the worst possible way at some point. Throughout their marriage, Bob had meted out punishment for her perceived wrongdoings. And yet still she felt guilty at the manner of his death. Surely the time had come to put it behind her once and for all. Otherwise was she not in danger of punishing herself in much the same way he had?

  She began to write again.

  And so, back to That Day. On the face of it, it was much the same as any other; a shift at the exchange, grocery shopping and home. I was relieved to be going back to an empty house, relaxed at the prospect of having time to myself to read or sew or simply do nothing. No one was regarding me with suspicion, demanding I account for my every move. My time my own, for once.r />
  Already, even though I didn’t know it, on that journey home, a countdown had begun to something new and momentous.

  Five, four . . .

  Some kind of commotion at the pub was spilling out into the road in front of me. I was too wrapped up in my own thoughts to see what was happening. A tangle of bodies. Breaking glass. Before I knew it, someone crashed into me and knocked me to the ground. I felt my bag skitter out of my hand.

  Three, two . . .

  I remember the shock of it. The feeling of fury and humiliation. A voice cutting through the chaos, English spoken with an accent.

  One . . .

  You. At my side. Apologising, offering to help, even though you were not to blame. Captain Marek Novotny. Doing the right thing, the honourable thing. That was what I was thinking, even as I gave you a piece of my mind, even as I told you exactly what I thought of drunken men misbehaving, making it impossible for a woman minding her own business to walk home in peace in broad daylight. I remember raising my voice: ‘Watch what you’re doing!’ I hate to think the first words I spoke to you were in anger. I remember going on my way, thinking that at least someone (you!) had the good grace to come to my rescue.

  That Day. Forever etched on my mind. The point at which my life changed forever.

  The moment we met.

  Pat stopped writing and put down her pen. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing. Months had gone by with no word from Marek. Her hands were tied; she had no means of contacting him. He could be anywhere. Wounded, captured or worse. What if he was dead? What if he had changed his mind about her?

  No, she refused to believe it. Not yet. She prayed their separation was temporary and that, in time, he would return and they would make a life together. He would find her.

  Marek would always know how to find her.

  Chapter 18

  I

  T HAUNTED MIRIAM, THE thought of what might have happened had she not decided to go looking for Bryn that night. The image was stuck in her mind: him lying there, utterly still, her kneeling at his side, clutching his freezing hand, saying his name over and over. Begging him not to leave her.