A Woman's Courage Page 16

  ‘I wish I had your faith,’ Alison said, ‘but I have a feeling things will only get worse. You saw how the atmosphere changed in there, the way people were looking at me. They want a scapegoat, and who better than John? I’m afraid that until they find out who’s really killing those sheep, he’ll be blamed. ’ She was quiet a moment. ‘It’s my fault for asking him to come here. I should have guessed there ’d be trouble – not that I ever imagined anything as bad as this. If they don’t catch whoever’s doing this soon, I can see things turning very ugly. ’

  In her heart, Alison had known there would be opposition to John living in the village. She had hoped it would only be a very few, however, and that in time, as Sarah suggested, he would be accepted. It had happened with the trekkers. Despite initial hostility, once the soup kitchen was up and running and accommodation was provided in the village hall, things settled down. She wondered now if it had been naïve of her, but she had assumed that having the trekkers in the village had led to a softening of attitudes, and that even those most vocal in their objections would now incline to a more open-minded approach. Surely, they had all grown used to seeing black faces and understood there was more to someone than the colour of their skin.

  Well, perhaps not.

  Teresa exchanged a worried look with Sarah.

  ‘You did a good thing offering John a home,’ Teresa said. ‘The right thing. If it weren’t for you, he ’d be stuck in some grim hostel in a city that’s been bombed to bits. ’

  ‘I hoped I was helping,’ Alison said. ‘I’m not so sure now. ’

  ‘We’re all on your side,’ Sarah told her. ‘On John’s side. Whoever’s killing those sheep, it’s not him, and we’ll make sure everyone knows. ’

  Chapter 24

  A

  FTER BREAKFAST, PAT SPENT an hour at the kitchen table, writing. Her letter to Marek now extended to dozens of pages. She wondered if she would ever finish it, this letter she would never send. When she began to write, she hadn’t realised she would be unable to stop, that something would compel her to carry on. The more she wrote, the more it seemed as if the letter took on a life of its own, until it stopped being a letter and became something else. Something more. An expression of faith, perhaps – a means of giving voice to the hope she held onto that Marek, although absent, was not lost to her. Her words a sign that the connection between them was unbroken. The simple act of writing enough to keep their love alive. Everything she felt for him, she committed to paper. She had poured out every memory, no matter how small: a frayed collar, a snatched moment, flowers she had not been able to throw away that were now carefully pressed between the pages of a book. She would not allow him to become a ghost, a memory that gradually faded. You see, I have not given up, my love. You are in my heart, always.

  He was real. As long as she kept on filling up blank sheets of paper with words, she could believe that Marek was still part of her life. Out there, somewhere.

  At eleven on the dot she stopped, cleared away the papers and got ready to go into the village.

  She had decided to pay Gwen Talbot a visit. It was time they had a chat.

  *

  Gwen came to the door clutching a tea towel and was unable to conceal her surprise at finding Pat facing her.

  ‘I hope I’ve not picked a bad moment,’ Pat said, with a smile. ‘I’ve been meaning to have a word. ’ When Gwen didn’t answer, Pat went on, ‘A bit of WI business. I could do with another pair of hands. Of course, if you’re in the middle of something I can come back later. ’

  Reluctantly, Gwen invited her in.

  ‘I’d hoped to catch you after last week’s WI meeting, but it was all a bit chaotic in the end and I didn’t get a chance. ’

  Frances had managed to restore order, but even as the women were leaving the hall Martha Dawson could be heard complaining about the sheep killings, muttering loudly about ‘savages’ coming into the village.

  Gwen nodded. ‘Awful business what’s happening on the Morton farm. I hear there was another animal killed, the night before last. Its throat was cut, same as the others, left to bleed to death. ’

  Pat shook her head. ‘It makes no sense. Why would anyone do such a thing?’

  ‘Plenty of folk think it’s the black fella living at Mrs Scotlock’s place. ’

  Pat frowned. ‘John’s an obvious target, a stranger who’s never going to blend in no matter what. It’s the easiest thing in the world to pick on someone because they don’t look like us. ’ She gazed at Gwen. ‘It’s tempting, don’t you find, to make all kinds of assumptions based on what we think we know when the truth is we’re guessing most of the time? It’s easy to allow our own prejudices to seep in and lead us to entirely the wrong conclusions. ’

  Gwen was watching her closely. ‘I’ve always considered myself a good judge of character,’ she said. ‘And you can’t deny the coloureds are different. ’

  ‘Are they, though? Have you actually spoken to Mr Smith – I mean, a proper conversation?’

  Gwen didn’t answer. She pursed her lips.

  ‘I happen to think the only way to get to know a person and make an informed judgement about who they are is by sitting down and talking to them. ’ Pat smiled. ‘A bit like we are now. ’

  Gwen looked away. ‘Someone’s killing those sheep, and you can’t tell me it’s one of the villagers. ’

  ‘I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. ’

  Neither one spoke for a moment.

  ‘I can be as guilty as the next person when it comes to making snap judgements,’ Pat said. ‘I make an effort not to, but sometimes without even thinking I’ve made up my mind about someone with almost nothing to go on beyond the clothes they’re wearing or their accent. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been proved wrong. Mrs Cameron, for instance. ’

  Gwen looked surprised.

  ‘I don’t mind admitting I used to consider her snobbish. And then she took us in after we lost our home and I discovered there’s so much more to her . . . generosity, a good heart. She’s a surprisingly good listener, too, as I’ve discovered since Bob passed away. ’

  Gwen waited a moment. ‘It must have been a shock, losing him the way you did,’ she ventured. ‘So suddenly. ’

  ‘I’ve always considered any loss, regardless of the circumstances, to be shocking. ’

  Gwen Talbot had nursed her husband through a long illness and seen the life fade from him, watched helplessly as the man she loved slipped away. She had been warned he would not get better, and yet she had never stopped hoping he might, that something no one had thought to consider might save him, that a miracle might happen. Having time to come to terms with what she was told was the inevitable outcome of his illness had not made things any easier for her. It had been no less shocking, no less dreadful.

  When he took his final breath, without fuss, in his sleep, with Gwen at his side, the pain was unexpected, acute. It was as if she had been struck a physical blow. In the end, having notice of what lay ahead had been of no comfort. She was still plunged into a state of shock. Perhaps knowing wasn’t the same as accepting. You could know a thing and not quite believe it, she thought. Even now, she had the peculiar sense of being pulled up short at the realisation that he was no longer there. Time was a great healer, they said, and yet some of the pain refused to go away. She glanced at Pat. It was not something she spoke about. Who else would understand?

  ‘Do you ever wonder what other people think of you?’ Pat asked.

  Gwen seemed taken aback. ‘I’m not sure I . . . ’

  ‘I do. I find it’s impossible to know if the face you think you’re presenting to the world is the one other people actually see. Do you know what I mean?’

  Gwen looked perplexed. ‘I’m not sure I do, no. ’

  ‘One day I was in the cemetery and someone – Joyce, I suspect – had put a few flowers on Bob’s grave. They were larkspur, purple. They were lovely, although
on their last legs when I saw them. ’ She smiled. ‘Bob hated cut flowers. He wouldn’t have them in the house – said he couldn’t stand the sight of them slowly dying, rotting away. He always said it was the smell of decay. I happen to think flowers cheer the place up, but he found them depressing. He was always very particular – about that, about everything. It’s why I would never put flowers on his grave. ’ She looked up at Gwen. ‘I can’t quite bring myself to say anything to Joyce. ’

  Gwen looked away, awkward. It had never occurred to her that Pat might have her reasons for leaving the grave bare. ‘I admit I did wonder. I’m there every week with flowers for Alan. He loved roses. He planted the ones in the front. ’ There were glorious scented blooms filling the border, and a showy crimson climber next to the front door. They had lived, when he had not.

  It was beginning to dawn on Gwen that she might have misjudged Pat. That business about the grave – she would never have guessed. Perhaps she should have a quiet word with Joyce Cameron, and put her in the picture.

  ‘Bob never really had a chance to enjoy the success his writing brought,’ Pat went on. ‘He was only just starting to do well before the . . . accident. ’ She hesitated. ‘Life can be cruel sometimes. Afterwards, I was left questioning what really matters – how we can be robbed of the things we take for granted without warning. It made me want to appreciate what I have – my friends, this village. It made me want to make the most of each day, and not to waste a moment. ’ She glanced at Gwen. ‘Time is so precious. A gift from God, if you like. Those of us who are here have a duty to savour it. Don’t you agree?’

  Gwen had no option but to nod. When Alan first became ill, it was something they’d spoken about: time being short, making the most of things. And they had, for as long as they could. They’d gone on long walks, made time to gaze at the stars on clear nights. They’d talked, too, about everything. He wanted her to live her life to the full, he said, and she promised she would, wondering as she did how on earth she ever could if he wasn’t there.

  She had never quite managed to.

  Someone was moving about upstairs, and Gwen glanced at the ceiling. ‘My son, Ronald,’ she said. ‘Since he came home, he’s been sleeping a lot, keeping odd hours. ’ Footsteps thundered across the landing, and Gwen stood up. ‘I’ll just see if he wants something to eat. ’

  ‘Of course. ’

  Pat went to the window and gazed into the garden while Gwen was upstairs. She looked out at the tea roses planted by Gwen’s husband, then back around the room. According to the clock in the corner it was almost midday.

  From upstairs came the sound of voices. Pat could make out only some of what was being said – Gwen offering to cook something or make a sandwich, whatever he wanted. Pat had not met Gwen’s son, and was not even sure what was wrong with him. There must have been something serious for him to have been discharged. She heard a voice raised in anger – Ronald, saying something to his mother that Pat didn’t catch. The tone he used was reminiscent of Bob, and Pat felt a prickle of concern at the back of her neck. Gwen was silent, Ronald doing all the talking now, using the same accusing tone Pat had become accustomed to.

  Memories flooded back. A plate of food flying from the table. Crockery hurled against the wall. Bob’s hand raised against her.

  She should go and see what was happening.

  But what if that only made things worse? For a moment she wrestled with her conscience, not knowing what to do for the best. Then footsteps crossed the hall and the back door banged shut.

  Gwen appeared looking dazed, defeated. Pat wondered if her son was hitting her, and didn’t dare ask.

  ‘He’s fed up,’ Gwen explained, ‘that’s the problem. It’s hard for him, stuck at home with only me for company. Poor lad needs something to do to take his mind off things. ’

  Pat struggled to think of what to say. ‘Can he help you in the garden? A bit of weeding, maybe – or he could take charge of the vegetable plot. Not that it looks as if it needs much work – you’ve got everything neat. What about the hens?’ She was gabbling, she knew, thinking about Bob. Hoping she was wrong about Ronald.

  ‘It’s hard to know what to do for the best. ’

  ‘His injuries . . . are they very bad?’ Pat asked.

  Gwen didn’t answer at first. In the corner of the room, the clock began to chime. Twelve o’clock.

  ‘The army sends lads home, some of them in a bad way, and expects the family to get on with it,’ Gwen said. ‘And I would if I knew what to do. I’d do anything for my boy. I don’t know how to help him, that’s the problem. ’

  ‘If there’s anything I can do . . . ’ Pat began.

  Gwen was quiet. The clock finished chiming. ‘I seem to remember you came here wanting my help with something and, somehow, I’ve managed to turn the tables,’ she said.

  ‘It wasn’t important. ’

  ‘Ask me, anyway. Take my mind off things. ’

  ‘ “Fashion on the Ration”, ’ Pat said. ‘I could do with a hand. I still need to sort through all the clothing that’s been donated and there’s rather a lot. I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve taken on more than I can manage. ’

  Gwen frowned. ‘I’m not sure why you think I can be of assistance. I know nothing about clothes. ’

  ‘It’s not that side of things I’m concerned about,’ Pat admitted. ‘It’s more organisational skills I’m after, and I remembered you’ve always done a good job with the annual flower show. You know how to bring order to chaos. ’ She gave her a pleading look. ‘Even if you could spare a few hours, I’d be grateful. It would be a weight off my mind. ’

  Gwen thought for a moment, and then her face was lit by a slight smile. ‘I’ll see what I can do. ’

  *

  On the way home, Pat bumped into Erica outside Brindsley’s. ‘You’ve heard there’s been more trouble at the Morton farm?’ Erica said. ‘Dreadful business. It’s the talk of the village. ’

  ‘I can well imagine,’ Pat said. ‘And I can guess who’s getting the blame. ’

  ‘Sarah went to see Alison this morning to let her know that she and John have the support of the WI. ’

  ‘With the exception of Mrs Dawson and her crowd. ’ Pat wondered if anything she ’d said earlier had given Gwen Talbot pause for thought.

  ‘Frances is talking of suspending Mrs Dawson’s membership, apparently. ’

  Pat was surprised. ‘Can she do that?’

  ‘Frances seems to think so. She’s furious about what happened at the meeting, the unseemly language that was used. The constitution is clear about promoting ideals of tolerance and justice, she says, both of which were in short supply the other evening. ’

  ‘I can’t imagine how Alison must be feeling. ’

  ‘It’s awful. She told Sarah she feels responsible for asking John to come here in the first place. ’

  ‘It’s all too easy for people to make him the scapegoat. I was just saying as much to Gwen Talbot. ’

  It was Erica’s turn to look surprised. ‘Gwen Talbot? I didn’t know the two of you were friends. ’

  Pat gave a wry smile. ‘Perhaps not friends, exactly. I’ve asked her to help out with “Fashion on the Ration”. ’

  ‘I could give you a hand with that. ’

  ‘Thank you. The time will come when I’ll be asking everyone to pitch in. We’ve had so many donations, I can’t even begin to start sorting them on my own. I just felt . . . I wanted to make an effort with her. ’

  ‘Actually, she can be a lot nicer than you might think,’ Erica said. ‘When Will was unwell she arrived on the doorstep one night with a pie she ’d made for us. To say it was unexpected would be an understatement. Will was good to her when her husband was ill, she said, and she wanted to do something for us in return. ’

  Pat nodded. ‘I have my suspicions that beneath her rather stern exterior beats a good heart – she just doesn’t
want anyone to know. ’

  Chapter 25

  D

  AVID WAS WALKING JENNY home, a journey they did their best to eke out in order to put off the moment when they would have to say goodnight and go their separate ways. Earlier, she had put on a white coat and helped Miriam haul a pig off a hook in the cold store and onto the block, where David had butchered it. There was something touching about the sight of Jenny in one of his father’s white coats, the sleeves turned back, the hem almost skimming her ankles. To know that she was doing this for him was enough to melt his heart.

  The more he got to know her, the more he came to realise she was not the girl he ’d always thought her to be – that beneath the glossy veneer, she was kind and strong and capable of working hard without complaint.

  He had, he realised, underestimated her.

  Most nights after helping in the shop she stayed for something to eat, at Miriam’s insistence. David knew how fond of Jenny his mother was; it was made plain by the way she fussed over her and paid her compliments, quizzing her about her skin and how she kept it looking so lovely. Jenny’s ‘secret’ turned out to be Pond’s Cold Cream, a layer to remove the day’s ‘muck and make-up’ and another slathered on and left to sink in overnight. ‘Flawless,’ Miriam had said, impressed, making Jenny preen with pleasure. And how did she get her eyebrows so dark and dramatic-looking? Miriam wondered. Boot polish, it turned out. Bryn, the kind of man David would have expected to roll his eyes in amusement at such trivial matters, somehow managed to appear interested.

  The truth was they were all slightly intoxicated by her, David most of all.

  Bryn was back working in the shop, doing a few hours behind the counter on their busy days, which was as much as Miriam was prepared to sanction. The rest of the time, he seemed content looking after Vivian. His collapse had forced him to rethink his life and adopt a slower pace. David knew that his father had struggled with his new everyday life at first, but he was growing more accustomed to letting others do the work for him, and with Jenny helping out, they were getting by. He knew, too, that Bryn loved the extra time he got with Vivian. Occasionally, David would hear him discussing with Vivian what the plans were for the day ahead: ‘You’re stuck with me again today, sweet pea. ’ ‘That clematis wants tidying up, but we’ll not take the secateurs to it just yet, though, while it still has flowers. We want it to come back again next year, don’t we?’ ‘Let me bring that washing in off the line, then we’ll have a story. ’ On one occasion David overheard him telling Vivian a version of Goldilocks, in which the porridge belonging to the three bears had mysteriously been transformed into ‘best pork chops’.