A Woman's Courage Page 13

  And yet she still wondered if it had been the wise thing to do and what the village gossips might say once word got out.

  ‘There’s no need to explain,’ Teresa told her. ‘Of course you’re doing the right thing – the best thing – for both of you. Why would you sit back and do nothing when someone you care about is having a hard time of things and you’re in a position to help? It crossed my mind a while ago that you might ask him. ’

  Alison was taken aback. ‘Really?’

  ‘It makes perfect sense. And you know what I think of him. He’s a lovely man, thoroughly kind, and you get along so well. I can see how much he thinks of you – likes you. ’ She gave Alison a meaningful look. ‘He definitely sees you as more than a “friend”. If you ask me, you two are made for one another. ’

  ‘We’ve been spending a lot of time together,’ Alison admitted. ‘I asked him to help me with Elsa, as you suggested, and we’ve been out for long walks in the country. Taking picnics, going miles some days. ’

  ‘It sounds perfect. ’

  ‘It is, in many ways. I trust him. It’s as if I can tell him anything. ’ When she told him about George, that they were never actually married, and that the only other person who knew was Teresa, John had merely nodded. What happens between two people is their own business, no one else’s, he told her.

  ‘I won’t deny we’ve become close,’ Alison said, ‘although . . . ’ She hesitated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not sure what there is between us. Nothing’s happened. ’ Less than nothing. No ‘accidental’ brushing against one another in passing. Once or twice on their walks she had lost her footing and he had caught her elbow, steadying her before letting go again. That was all. John’s behaviour had at all times been above reproach. It made it all the more confusing.

  ‘We’ve had our chances,’ Alison said. ‘Once or twice when we’ve been in some lovely spot in perfect weather, enjoying the view, I’ve thought, perhaps . . . ’ She looked at Teresa and shook her head. ‘And yet he’s not even hinted he might like anything more than friendship. We couldn’t get along any better than we do but I’m still not sure he likes me, as you put it. If he felt something more than friendship towards me, wouldn’t he have said so before now?’

  Teresa sighed. ‘Not necessarily. Perhaps he’s not sure of your feelings, and he’s worried if he tries to take things further he might ruin the relationship you already have. ’

  ‘He must know I . . . like him. ’

  ‘Oh, Alison. It’s not always obvious. People are complicated. Our feelings are rarely clear-cut and easy to read. We think we want something but we’re too afraid to let it show in case we’re rejected. We blow hot and cold, change our minds, lose our nerve. We say one thing and do another. It can be the hardest thing to know what’s going on in someone else’s head. You and I have both known loss, and I suspect John has too. It makes you wary. Once you’ve had your heart broken you’re bound to be cautious about falling for someone again. ’ She gave Alison a long look. ‘It can be a risky business, deciding to put your cards on the table when there’s so much at stake. You could always find a way of letting him know that you’re open to the idea of something more than friendship. ’ She caught Alison’s expression. ‘Discreetly, of course, without making things awkward between you. ’

  ‘I don’t want us to be the subject of tittle-tattle, as much for John’s sake as mine. ’ Alison sighed; she knew there was bound to be talk about him becoming her lodger. She would simply have to deal with it, and so would John. ‘It’s going to be difficult enough for him living in a small village where he’s bound to stand out and draw comment. ’

  Teresa smiled. ‘People will get used to him being here, you’ll see. You’ve some good friends who’ll make sure he knows he’s welcome. ’ She took off her apron and draped it over the back of the kitchen chair. ‘Shall we sit down for a minute?’

  They went into the front room, where there were signs Teresa had been darning. She whipped one of Nick’s socks off a chair and gestured at Alison to sit.

  ‘Tell me,’ Teresa said, flopping into the chair opposite, ‘am I in danger of descending into drudgery? Be honest. ’

  Alison laughed. ‘I doubt it. I’ve never seen a more glamorous “drudge”. ’

  ‘I miss teaching, the challenges of the classroom. I miss being around the children. ’

  ‘You’ll have a child of your own soon. ’

  ‘I know. ’ She rested a hand on her belly. ‘The thought of it still terrifies me. Does it all simply fall into place, do you think, once the baby comes? Suddenly, by some miraculous process, you know what’s required?’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong person. ’

  ‘Nick seems to think so. ’ Teresa thought for a moment. ‘He’s not in the least bit anxious about any of it. I can see him finding fatherhood completely natural. Nobody will have to tell him what to do. He’ll know, instinctively. ’

  ‘And so will you,’ Alison insisted. ‘You’ll work it out together. ’

  Chapter 20

  F

  RANCES HEADED TO THE village butcher’s, where Miriam was now back behind the counter full time. David was out of sight in the cold store, getting to grips with the butchery work while Bryn was at home, resting, minding Vivian.

  ‘That’s how things are, for the time being, anyway,’ Miriam explained to Frances. ‘’Course, Bryn sees no good reason why he can’t come back to work, but I’m not having him rushing things. Not until I’m sure he’s got his strength back. He had such a fright – we all did. I’m still getting over it, so I don’t see how he can claim to be completely better. ’ She sounded exasperated. ‘With the best will in the world, things can’t go back to how they were before just like that. ’

  ‘He’ll make a full recovery, though?’ Frances asked.

  Miriam nodded. ‘Provided he does as he’s told. He’s been warned not to do anything strenuous. He’s been given strict instructions. Dr Rosen made it perfectly clear. He might feel he’s back to his old self, but after a collapse like the one he had he’s going to have to watch his step. No putting a strain on himself – doctor’s orders. ’

  ‘Give him my best, won’t you?’ Frances said. ‘Is there anything you need help with – someone to watch Vivian for a few hours, perhaps? You only need say. ’

  ‘It’s kind of you,’ Miriam said. ‘We’re managing somehow, although we’ve a lot on. The shop next door, for one thing. David’s pressing on with it, determined to open on schedule no matter what, but it’s going to be tight. ’ She sighed. ‘Funny how you make plans, thinking you’ve taken into account every eventuality. When we talked about expanding and what might go wrong we were thinking more along the lines of how much it was all going to cost and if we could afford it . . . whether we ’d find a reliable builder, that kind of thing. Not for a second did we imagine Bryn falling ill. If we had, we wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to take on the extra responsibility. ’

  ‘I think it’s a rather wonderful quality, our tendency to believe we can create an ordered future,’ Frances said. ‘We believe we can make plans and watch them unfold as we hoped, even in such challenging times as these. ’

  Miriam nodded. ‘It’s thrown us, no doubt about it. ’

  ‘Things will settle down again, I’m sure,’ Frances said, ‘and having David must be a godsend. ’

  ‘I’d be lost without him. Jenny, too. ’ Miriam explained how Jenny had arrived at the shop the night before, straight from a shift at the base, and rolled up her sleeves – literally – to lend a hand in the cold store. Afterwards, she helped David paint the storeroom in the new premises. It was gone midnight before they finished. ‘She’s been a huge help. ’

  Frances could not hide her surprise. ‘You mean Jenny Marshall?’

  Miriam nodded. ‘What we’re struggling with is the heavy work,’ she explained.
‘Bryn handled that side of things before – it’s the one thing David can’t manage. We weren’t sure what we ’d do, but then Jenny suggested she pitch in. ’ Miriam smiled. ‘She’s strong, that one. Between the two of us, we’re making light work of it. ’

  Frances thought of the Jenny Marshall she knew: red lips, the sometimes cloying scent of lavender, an inclination to delight in stirring up trouble. She was not the kind of girl Frances would have expected to be much use in a crisis – and in a butcher’s, of all places! She tried to imagine the Jenny she knew hefting animal carcasses, choosing to get her hands dirty when she could be at home curling her hair or doing her nails. It was a revelation. ‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘People can be full of surprises, can’t they?’

  *

  Frances was on her way to the post office when she saw Pat and waved to her. ‘I’ve just heard the most extraordinary thing,’ she said, and described how Jenny Marshall was helping the Brindsleys following Bryn’s collapse.

  Pat could not conceal her amusement. ‘We are talking about the same Jenny I worked with at the telephone exchange?’ she asked.

  ‘The very same. ’

  Pat laughed. ‘Perhaps she has a secret twin. ’

  ‘According to Miriam, she’s proving an enormous help. I got the impression they wouldn’t have managed without her. ’

  Pat was shaking her head. ‘I don’t care what you say, that’s not the same girl. If the Jenny I remember so much as chipped a nail, you never heard the end of it. ’

  ‘Well, now she thinks nothing of lifting a side of beef. What on earth has happened to her?’

  ‘David, I suspect,’ Pat said. ‘I saw them together when I was out walking, up by the castle. David had his binoculars – it looked to me as if they were birdwatching . . . ’

  This prompted more incredulity from Frances. ‘Really? Well, good luck to them. David’s a lovely young man and if he’s interested in Jenny, there must clearly be more to her than meets the eye. ’

  *

  A short distance away, on the opposite side of the street, Gwen Talbot observed this exchange. Pat was facing her, animated, laughing. Nothing to suggest a widow in mourning.

  Earlier, Gwen had been at St Mark’s, visiting the grave of her husband, something she did at least once a week, or more if it was a birthday or anniversary or she felt the need to share something with him. The one-sided conversations conducted as she ran a cloth over the headstone or arranged a bunch of fresh flowers were a source of great comfort. She ’d been spending more time with Alan of late, telling him about Ronald and how worried she was, asking what she should do. If he ’d been alive, he ’d have been able to get through to their son. He ’d never have put up with the door-slamming, the hours Ronald spent away from the house doing who-knew-what. ‘I can see how angry he is,’ she had whispered to the headstone, ‘but he won’t talk about it. Not to me. He won’t listen to a thing I say. I wish you were here, love – you’d know what to do. I miss you. We all do. ’

  Afterwards, she went to look at the mound of earth that marked the grave of Bob Simms and was struck by its state of apparent neglect. There weren’t any flowers. She wondered if Pat had even been back since the funeral. It certainly didn’t look like it.

  As far as Gwen could make out, Pat Simms wasn’t in the slightest bit affected by her husband’s death. True, at the funeral she had looked dreadful – pained, not a bit of colour in her face, great dark shadows under her eyes. But somehow, she had managed to speak about her husband without going to pieces. Gwen had never thought much of Bob Simms; he was too full of himself for her liking. Why he felt he was so much better than anyone else when all he did was sit at a typewriter, she couldn’t fathom. What was so special about being a writer, anyway? It seemed pointless – a waste of time as far as she was concerned. Still, Gwen had attended the funeral in order to support Pat, a fellow WI member, and made a point of offering her condolences. She knew, after all, how it felt to lose your husband.

  Apparently, Pat did not feel the same.

  Gwen wasn’t the only one to have noticed how happy Pat Simms seemed these days. She looked a good deal happier than when her husband was alive, in fact. Since she ’d moved back into the village, she seemed utterly carefree. It was rumoured that she had come into money – a small fortune, more than enough to account for the smile on her face, according to Gwen’s friend, Martha Dawson, whose husband ran the Black Horse and seemed able to find these things out. Perhaps, Martha had suggested, Pat was only too happy to see the back of the great writer. Gwen, remembering Pat’s haunted look at the funeral, hadn’t been so sure.

  Now, though, she could not deny that Pat looked all too happy. She wondered about the accident Bob Simms was supposed to have had – tripping on a rug, apparently, falling down the stairs while Pat was out at a WI meeting. Very convenient, some might say.

  So, when Gwen rounded the corner on the way home from the cemetery and saw Pat with Frances, the two of them highly amused by something, she felt outraged. She might not have liked Bob Simms, but all the same. Such behaviour was plain wrong – disrespectful. She watched the women go their separate ways, Pat in the direction of the house she could only afford thanks to the money left to her by her late husband, Frances coming towards her.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Talbot. ’ Frances still had a smile on her face. ‘Such a lovely day. ’

  Gwen glared at her. ‘I suppose so – if you’ve nothing better to do than indulge in high jinks in the street. ’

  Frances frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not with you. ’

  ‘Your friend. ’ An insult, spat out. ‘Mrs Happy-Go-Lucky. ’

  ‘I don’t quite follow . . . ’

  ‘She put on a good act at the funeral, I’ll give her that. ’ Gwen Talbot’s voice had risen. ‘Managed to take me in, and plenty others. I had every sympathy. Poor woman, losing her husband. Tragic. Terrible. Only now I can’t helping thinking she’s been having us all on—’

  ‘Mrs Talbot, if you don’t mind—’ Frances got no further.

  ‘Oh, but I do. I mind being made to feel a fool. First thing this morning, I was in the cemetery, tending my husband’s grave, something I do regularly, and I thought I’d pay my respects to Mr Simms. ’ Her lip curled in disgust. ‘Looks to me as if no one’s been near, certainly not his grieving widow. ’

  A voice interrupted. ‘That’s where you’re quite mistaken, Mrs Talbot. ’ Joyce Cameron was walking towards them from Brindsley and Son, and Gwen Talbot seemed briefly thrown off-balance. ‘I happened to be in the cemetery recently, taking flowers into the church, and Pat was at the grave,’ Joyce said. ‘She was deep in thought, so much so I hesitated to intrude on what was clearly a private moment. Before you go accusing anyone of anything, I’d suggest you take the time to establish the facts. ’

  Mrs Talbot chose to ignore this. ‘All I know is whenever I’ve seen her, she’s happy as you like. Just now – chatting away, laughing and joking. With respect, Mrs Cameron, you weren’t here to see it. ’

  ‘Mrs Talbot, you’re being quite unfair,’ Frances said. ‘What would you suggest – that Pat hides away and sees no one? What choice is there in the face of loss but to carry on with life as best we can? Isn’t that a lesson we’ve all had to learn?’

  ‘Mr Simms fell down the stairs, so we’ve been told. ’ Mrs Talbot aimed a challenging look first at Frances, then Joyce. ‘An accident. Didn’t the police look into it?’

  Joyce gazed at her. ‘I’d be very careful what you say. ’

  ‘And now she’s rolling in money, his money, and not in the least bit sorry!’ Mrs Talbot raised her voice. ‘Not even sorry enough to put a few flowers on his grave until there’s a headstone – if she’s going to bother with one. ’

  *

  ‘I thought you should know,’ Joyce said softly. She had gone straight to see Pat following her rather bruising encounter with Gwen Talbot. ‘I did my best on
your behalf, my dear, but I’m afraid there was no getting through to her. Once Mrs Talbot has the bit between her teeth . . . ’

  Pat sat quietly. She had shown Joyce into the small front room, where a tray with tea and some of the plain biscuits that had come out of the oven earlier now rested on a side table. In the centre of the mantelpiece were the roses picked from the garden that morning, and in front of the fireplace was the rug that was a gift from the WI on the eve of Pat’s move to the new house. The old house, as she now thought of it. The rug went well in the room, Pat thought, the rich burgundy a match for the hearth tiles. She saw it again sliding away from under Bob as he clawed at the air, seeking something to hold onto. Blinking, she stared into her teacup.

  Joyce, in a crisp cotton dress belted at the waist and some kind of feather-adorned confection on her head, sat straight-backed on one side of the hearth, repeating, word for word it seemed to Pat, the conversation that had recently taken place with Mrs Talbot.

  ‘And, of course, poor Mrs Barden was party to the whole thing,’ Joyce said. ‘She spoke up for you – we both did – but I was left with the distinct feeling that nothing we could say would make any difference. ’

  Pat managed to nod. She was not unduly surprised to learn that Gwen Talbot, whose reputation for gossip was well known, had something to say on the subject of Bob’s death – and the subsequent behaviour of his widow. Pat had always known it would only be a matter of time before the village gossips got to work. Nothing got past Gwen Talbot, and Pat was not entirely innocent. She felt a sudden flutter of panic. Perhaps something in her expression, her bearing, gave her away. She swept the thought aside. Hadn’t she been through all this already, and decided that to keep on punishing herself over Bob’s death was futile?

  Pat took a sip of tea, touched at the sense of outrage Joyce so clearly felt on her behalf. ‘It’s kind of you to try to put her straight,’ she offered. ‘I’m only sorry you became involved. It must have been quite unpleasant. ’