A Woman's Courage Read online

  Adam was quiet. ‘I’m not their vicar, and I haven’t been for some time. ’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t know if I have it in me anymore. Not after what I’ve seen . . . ’ He shook his head. ‘All I’m asking for is time to catch my breath. I need to think, to be still. ’ He gave her a pleading look. ‘And to be with you, just the two of us. I’m sure I’ll be ready soon, but until then . . . Does that sound so unreasonable?’

  ‘What if someone comes to the house?’

  ‘I’ll wait upstairs until they leave. ’

  She could see he was determined. ‘I don’t know how I can keep it from Frances. ’

  Adam thought for a moment. ‘Frances, then, but no one else. ’

  They lapsed into silence.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it, how you made it back?’ Sarah asked at last.

  ‘I will, I promise. Just – not yet. Give me a chance to do some thinking first. ’ He caught her look. ‘It’s still sinking in that I’m home, with you. Safe. At times, I wasn’t sure it would ever happen. Now that it has, I need a moment to take it in, that’s all. ’ He gave her a smile. ‘You could always bring me up to date on what I’ve missed here . . . ’

  She told him about Bob Simms, about Teresa and Nick expecting a baby, Bryn’s collapse, the fire at the new shop, David risking his life to save his family. There was so much he had missed.

  ‘Not what you’d call uneventful, then,’ Adam said wryly when she had finished.

  ‘Which is why they’ll all be so grateful to have you back. ’

  ‘All in good time. ’

  Chapter 29

  G

  WEN WAS ABOUT TO put on her coat and go to the village hall when Ronald came downstairs, looking cheerful for once.

  ‘Any chance of something to eat?’ he said.

  She put her coat back on the peg and went into the kitchen.

  She cracked eggs into a pan with thick slices of bread in beef dripping, just how Ronald liked it. There was music on the wireless and he whistled along to the tune while the eggs sizzled. He ’d always loved to whistle, and before he went away to fight the house was full of the sound. When he came back, though, the whistling had stopped.

  Gwen smiled to herself, the whistling encouraging her to believe that everything would be all right after all.

  She left him eating and went to check his room for dirty washing, picking up socks and a shirt lying on the floor. She wasn’t even going to look under the bed, but something in the room was smelling, even though the window was open to let fresh air in. She knelt down and pulled trousers and an old vest from under the bed. Right at the back against the wall was a pair of overalls Ronald used to wear when he did the odd bit of labouring before he signed up.

  It seemed strange that the overalls were under the bed. Gwen remembered washing and folding them while he was away and leaving them on a shelf in his wardrobe. As far as she knew, he ’d not had them on since he ’d been home, yet they were filthy and the smell rising from them was sickening. It was enough to turn your stomach. Like slurry, almost. They were damp, sticky to the touch. As she stared at them, she felt suddenly nauseous.

  Downstairs, Ronald was tucking into his breakfast, looking happier than he had for weeks. ‘Any chance of another egg?’ he asked, grinning at her.

  She held up the overalls. Her heart felt like a boulder. ‘Ronald, what have you done?’

  *

  Pat arrived at the village hall early to begin sorting through the clothes that had been donated for the WI’s ‘Fashion on the Ration’ extravaganza. She was grateful that both Sarah and Gwen Talbot had offered to lend a hand, as the request for unwanted clothes had produced far more than anyone had envisaged. Erica had also intended to help out, but her youngest daughter, Laura, now studying to be a doctor, was back from university for a brief stay and, understandably, Erica was keen to spend time with her. Pat gazed at the jumble of garments piled onto trestle tables at the far end of the hall, waiting to be put into some kind of order.

  Fortunately, Frances had managed to secure the loan of several clothes rails from Browns in Chester, where over the years she had become a good customer. The store had also sent boxes filled with hangers.

  Pat hung her coat over the back of a chair and prepared to make a start. She hoped to get as much done as she could over the next couple of days and work out how best to position everything so as to create the impression of a temporary shop rather than a jumble sale, ready for the event at the weekend. She ’d already broken everything down into categories and made a comprehensive list: ladies’ blouses, skirts, dresses (daywear and formal), jackets, suits, coats, knitwear, scarves, bags and belts. Similar lists existed for menswear and children’s clothes. In a corner were boxes filled with shoes.

  She made a start on the clothes, concentrating on womenswear and putting everything on hangers.

  After a couple of hours, she had managed to pull every item of women’s clothing from the pile. Now it was a case of getting it into some kind of order. She worked methodically, grouping styles and colours together. A few things were crumpled from being squashed under heavy coats, and Pat decided to wait and see whether the creases would fall out on their own over the next few days. If not, she would muster volunteers to run an iron over them.

  Her own wedding outfit was on the formalwear rail, and next to it hung a full-length silk evening dress in almost the same shade of turquoise, that had come from Frances.

  She had been generous with her donations, telling Pat it was the perfect opportunity to get rid of all the things she would never wear again that were simply cluttering up her wardrobe. The dress was Dior – Pat had seen from the label – in perfect condition, probably worn on only one or two occasions. How ironic that often the most beautiful clothes, the ones that cost the most – lavish evening dresses like this one from a Parisian fashion house – had only a few outings. The women who could afford the most extravagant garments made by top couturiers had no wish to be seen in them more than once or twice.

  Pat studied the dress with its nipped-in waist and generous skirt. All that fabric. She could alter it, give it a shorter hemline, use some of the fabric left over to make sleeves. The skirt was lined with fine gossamer, the most delicate Pat had ever seen. She could work some of it into a panel to fill the deep V at the back. She set the dress to one side. Before it went into the sale she would offer to remodel it for Frances.

  Then she stood back and surveyed her efforts, pleased with how much she had achieved in such a short space of time. Now that things were on racks rather than piled up willy-nilly, they looked altogether more appealing.

  ‘Yoo-hoo!’

  Pat looked up to see Steph making her way across the room towards her.

  ‘The door was open and I thought I’d come to see how it’s all going. ’

  ‘I’m getting there,’ Pat told her.

  ‘Isn’t anyone helping?’

  ‘I’m beginning to think I might have got my dates mixed up. ’ Sarah was usually reliable, and Gwen had promised to be there; it seemed odd that neither had been in touch to say they couldn’t make it. She hoped Gwen hadn’t decided against her after all. ‘I’ve a flask of tea if you ’d like to share it. ’

  ‘You look as if you’re in your element,’ Steph said five minutes later, sipping tea and admiring the rails of clothing that surrounded them. ‘It’s all very professional. ’

  ‘I’m enjoying it. It’s been good for me having a sense of purpose. ’ Pat smiled. ‘How’s everything with you?’

  ‘I’ve just had my regular check-up with Dr Rosen and she seems to think I’m doing well. ’

  ‘That’s wonderful. And you’re managing on the farm?’

  She nodded. ‘Stan’s got everything under control. ’

  ‘What about this awful business with your neighbour’s sheep?’

  ‘Jim Morton’s just about at the end of his tether. I’m worried he’ll take matters
into his own hands. ’ Steph hesitated. ‘He’s threatening to shoot anyone he sees on his land. ’

  ‘He’s not still blaming John? I’d have thought, after what happened with the fire at the butcher’s . . . ’

  Steph sighed. ‘There’s no talking to Jim Morton. Let’s just hope they find the real culprit before things turn truly nasty. ’

  *

  Before heading home for lunch, Pat decided to call on Gwen, hoping she might be free to help out for an hour or two in the afternoon. But as she turned into the lane, she saw the police car parked nearby. Gwen’s front door was open, and the same young policeman who ’d spoken to Pat after Bob’s accident was on his way down the path. A second man, with sergeant’s stripes on the shoulder of his uniform, emerged from the house, steering a burly young man towards the car.

  It was Gwen’s son, Ronald.

  Gwen was last to appear, white-faced, as Ronald got into the car and was driven off. The elderly couple from the house on the other side of the road stood in the garden, all too obviously craning to see what was going on.

  Pat hurried over. ‘Gwen, what’s happened?’

  Gwen waited until the car disappeared out of sight at the end of the lane, her face pale with worry. ‘I called them,’ she told Pat. ‘I had no choice. ’

  *

  Gwen sat at the kitchen table, silent. Pat placed a cup of tea in front of her and stirred sugar into it. ‘Have some of this,’ she said. ‘It’ll make you feel better. ’

  Gwen stared at the wall opposite while the tea went cold, unable to meet Pat’s eye.

  ‘I’m not here to pry,’ Pat said at last. ‘I can just keep you company for a bit, if you like. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. ’

  Gwen finally turned to look at her. ‘Everyone’s going to know soon enough. ’ She sounded on the verge of tears.

  ‘Oh, Gwen, surely it can’t be so bad. ’

  Gwen sighed. ‘This morning, Ronald was up early for once,’ she said. ‘I thought he was looking better. Washed, hair combed, clean shirt. He was altogether much brighter, like a different lad. He was more like his old self, wanting to know what there was for breakfast, not snapping my head off. ’ She glanced at Pat. ‘There’s been no pleasing him – nothing’s right. It doesn’t matter what I do, it’s not good enough. The strain of living with him, you’ve no idea what it’s been like. ’

  Pat said nothing. All the years of suffering Bob’s moods and outbursts meant she knew better than most what Gwen had been going through.

  ‘I was hoping he was on the mend,’ Gwen went on. ‘I dared to think he might be turning a corner. ’ She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Not for a second did it cross my mind . . . ’ She shook her head, her voice close to cracking, and reached into the pocket of her pinny for a handkerchief.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Pat said, ‘take your time. ’

  She sighed. ‘He’s barely spoken these last few weeks, not a word about what he’s been doing. ’ She went quiet and let her head sink into her hands. ‘It’s not as if I haven’t asked. I’ve done my best. ’

  ‘He’s not well,’ Pat said.

  ‘I’m his mother, I should have known. ’

  ‘Whatever it is, you can’t go blaming yourself. ’

  Gwen waited a moment, biting her lip. ‘It was Ronald,’ she said. ‘He’s the one who’s been killing the sheep. ’

  Chapter 30

  A

  LISON AND JOHN WERE in the front room, Elsa snoozing on Boris’s old chair. A jigsaw puzzle was taking form on the table before them, the outer edges complete. Alison stared at it in frustration. The piece she had in her hand, part of the chimney pot on a cottage, surely, refused to fit. She tried it all ways before conceding defeat and putting it back into the box. John smiled.

  Alison had never been much good at jigsaws. The more complicated ones inevitably defeated her. Even as a child, she had found the idea of a jigsaw strange, questioning why anyone would cut a perfectly good picture into odd-shaped pieces in order to put them all back exactly the way they were in the first place. And yet, jigsaws were popular. Many people loved them. An aunt of hers always had at least one on the go, the more challenging the better, liking nothing more than an expanse of sea or sky.

  Alison had not imagined John to be the type to take pleasure in poring over a jigsaw. And yet, seeing his look of concentration as he studied the pieces and slotted in one after another correctly, it was clear he had an aptitude. He had found the puzzle earlier when he was rearranging the contents of the cupboard under the stairs. (‘Have to do something to keep myself busy,’ he told her.) Alison felt sure the jigsaw wasn’t hers and wondered if it belonged to Teresa and had been left behind.

  ‘We should return it,’ she said.

  John smiled. ‘After we’ve done it. ’

  ‘There might be a piece missing,’ she said, hoping to put him off.

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ he told her.

  The picture on the box depicted a rural scene complete with thatched cottage, a pub called the White Lion and a cricket match in full swing. A couple in jodhpurs trotted past the pub on horseback. A dog that looked a bit like Elsa charged about. A family were enjoying a picnic next to the river. At the side of the road, a green sports car was having a wheel changed. It was meant to be an idyllic scene, Alison supposed, and yet the sense of peace was ruined by all the activity. It was not the kind of village that appealed much to her. As for the jigsaw, there was rather too much sky for her liking. It would have suited her aunt.

  So, when she saw Pat coming up the path, she was grateful for the distraction.

  *

  Pat came straight to the point. Gwen Talbot’s son had been arrested for killing Jim Morton’s sheep.

  John let out a sigh of relief. ‘How did they catch him?’ he asked.

  ‘Gwen reported him. ’

  Alison’s jaw dropped. ‘Gwen turned in her own son?’

  Pat nodded. ‘She ’d no idea it was him until this morning, didn’t suspect a thing. Then she went into his room and found an old pair of overalls covered in blood, and put two and two together. Once she was sure, she called the police. ’

  Pat didn’t say that Ronald had threatened his mother with a bread knife when she told him what she ’d done.

  Alison was shaking her head. ‘I don’t know what to say. ’

  ‘I knew about Ronald coming home wounded, I just didn’t know what had happened to him. ’ Pat sighed. ‘Once or twice I saw him in passing and he seemed well enough, but you can’t always tell. Look at David Brindsley – unless you were told, you’d never know how badly injured he was. ’

  Pat knew from Miriam that when David first arrived home, he had been full of rage and frustration, the bulk of which was directed at his parents. Miriam had feared for him at first, but gradually, he had recovered. Gwen must have hoped that, in time, Ronald would too.

  ‘From what I understand, he had some kind of breakdown,’ Pat went on. ‘Gwen wasn’t told in very much detail what prompted his discharge, and whenever she tried to find out from Ronald, he clammed up. ’ Gwen had told her more than that – that Ronald had shouted for her to mind her own business and stop going on at him, that he had stomped off out of the house in a fury, sometimes for hours at a time.

  ‘Something like shell shock, you mean?’ John asked.

  Pat frowned. ‘I’m not sure they call it that now. Whatever it is, Ronald’s not the boy he was, and Gwen’s been at her wits’ end doing her best to cope. He hasn’t been sleeping. Instead he’s been prowling around the house at night, keeping her awake. When he has been able to sleep, there are nightmares . . . Gwen is completely worn out. She’s been trying her best to get him well, but just feels as if she’s been getting nowhere. From what she’s said, he needs proper help. Maybe now he’ll get it. ’

  ‘She’s kept it well hidden,’ Alison said. ‘I had no idea. ’
/>   ‘Makes you wonder how many people are coming home in no fit state,’ John said, frowning. ‘There are men who look no different on the outside, but are broken within. There were men at the hostel . . . ’ He shook his head and broke off. ‘When it’s your mind and there’s nothing to show there’s anything wrong with you, I can’t help thinking it’s a harder thing to overcome. ’

  ‘You know we had the police here,’ Alison said. ‘They wanted to know where John had been on various dates. They searched the house, went through everything. ’

  There had been two uniformed officers, decent enough – just doing their job. When Alison asked why they were questioning John, the younger one had gone bright red, while his colleague, more senior, she guessed, said they were simply following a number of potential leads, talking to anyone whose name came up in the course of their enquiries.

  ‘Is that a polite way of saying you’ve had reports of a savage moving into the village?’ she asked, making the young one blush even harder.

  ‘That’s not the sort of language I’d choose to use,’ the older one said.

  ‘In that case, you’re very much in a minority. ’ She had looked pointedly at John. ‘Much the same as Mr Smith here. ’ She didn’t expect the police had questioned Ronald Talbot ‘in the course of their enquiries’.

  ‘At least you don’t have to worry about being blamed anymore,’ Pat said now. Alison reached for John’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Pat caught the look that passed between them, and tried to hide her surprise. She went on, ‘Gwen’s keen for people to know the truth. It’s all going to come out anyway, and she ’d rather it was sooner than later. An awful lot of people owe you an apology, John. ’

  Pat was rather looking forward to seeing Martha Dawson’s face when she found out.