A Woman's Courage Page 27

  John nodded. ‘We’ve thought about it all seriously. And the busyness is part of its appeal. There’ll be less chance of attracting too much attention. ’

  ‘You’ll be missed very much,’ Frances said, ‘but of course, you must do what you feel is right. ’

  ‘You absolutely must,’ Teresa echoed, ‘as long as you promise to come back and visit us. I would hate it if your godson only rarely got to see you. ’

  Alison beamed. ‘Of course, I don’t want Nicholas growing up not knowing who I am. ’

  ‘That will never happen,’ Teresa told her.

  Erica sighed. ‘Is there nothing we can say to change your minds?’

  Alison shook her head. ‘It’s not a decision we’ve come to in haste. We’ve talked it through at great length and we both think it’s for the best. ’

  John reached across and squeezed his wife’s hand. ‘There’s something to be said for starting again, as long as we go in the right spirit, with hope and love in our hearts. ’

  Chapter 42

  A

  FEW WEEKS LATER, IN mid-February, just after Alison and John had packed up and left Great Paxford with their dog, the first American GIs arrived. Among them was a contingent of black airmen whose impact on the village was sudden and dramatic. Overnight, black faces became commonplace. They were courteous, with money to spend, and were, mostly, well-received.

  ‘What a pity Alison and John didn’t stay long enough to see this,’ Frances remarked to Sarah. ‘They might just have changed their minds about going. ’

  Sarah wasn’t so sure. ‘I got the impression they were ready for a new adventure. ’

  ‘Wait until you hear this,’ Frances went on. ‘The other evening Claire and Spencer were in the Black Horse having a drink, and a few of the black GIs were in with one or two of the WAAFs from Tabley Wood. They’re very popular with the local girls, apparently. Utterly charming and polite, Claire says. Very good-looking, and the uniform’s rather fetching. And they have supplies of . . . nylons. ’ Frances smiled. ‘The girls they were drinking with appeared completely besotted. ’

  ‘Does this mean Trevor Dawson doesn’t mind black men in his pub after all . . . as long as they’ve plenty of money to spend?’ Sarah said.

  ‘Well, this is the interesting bit. A group of white GIs arrived later in the evening and ordered the others to leave. Did you know, there’s no mixing at all between them? I hear the black airmen are treated appallingly. ’

  Sarah nodded; she had heard about the policy of strict segregation within the American forces.

  ‘So, the white GIs began name-calling, telling the black men to get out. Then Trevor Dawson squared up to them. ’

  Sarah’s eyes widened.

  ‘He only threw the white GIs out!’ cried Frances. ‘He told them that he runs a peaceful establishment and won’t stand for any trouble. He refused to serve them. ’

  ‘Trevor Dawson?’

  Frances clapped her hands in delight. ‘I know! Can you believe it? Claire and Spencer saw the whole thing. ’

  Sarah looked utterly perplexed. ‘I’m really not sure what to make of that. ’

  ‘We can only hope that what happened with John was a valuable lesson in treating others with respect, regardless of their skin colour. ’ Frances caught Sarah’s look. ‘I know it’s quite a leap to imagine Mr Dawson thinking in those terms, but bear with me. It’s just possible he’s looking to make amends in some small way for his dreadful misjudgement where John was concerned. ’

  ‘Or it may be something to do with the extent to which the black GIs had already boosted the pub’s takings that night. They’re certainly a lot better off than our servicemen. ’

  Frances gave her a reproachful look. ‘You may well be right, but on this occasion I wonder if we might adopt a less cynical approach and at least give Mr Dawson the benefit of the doubt. Wouldn’t it be something to think that John had somehow left a lasting and positive impression on him, that the unfairness he experienced may have helped pave the way for these new arrivals – who might otherwise have been met with suspicion – to be treated with far greater tolerance?’

  Sarah smiled. ‘Perhaps. And you’re right, it’s uplifting to think that all John went through, with great dignity too, might not have been in vain. ’

  Frances looked pleased.

  ‘Actually, I called on Teresa the other day,’ Sarah went on. ‘The baby is completely adorable, by the way. ’ He looked like his father. Sarah had carried the sleeping Nicholas up to the nursery, which Nick had decorated before his death. Buttercup-yellow walls and stencils depicting scenes from the nursery rhyme ‘Hey, Diddle Diddle’. ‘You’ve reminded me, Teresa mentioned she ’d had a visit from Martha Dawson. ’

  ‘Really? I wouldn’t have thought they were friends. ’

  ‘They’re not, but Mrs Dawson was asking after Alison and John. Apparently, she was sorry to hear they’d left the village and wondered if Teresa had an address for them, as she wanted to send a note of congratulations on their marriage. ’

  Frances was wide-eyed. ‘Well, that does surprise me. ’

  ‘I got the impression Teresa gave her short shrift – she still feels rather raw about John being accused over the sheep killings. ’

  Sarah had later made a point of going to see Mrs Dawson and found her full of remorse over her treatment of Alison and John.

  ‘I’ve a feeling Martha Dawson is keen to smooth things over with Alison and John. ’ Sarah, having finally embraced her role as vicar’s wife, was already fully engaged doing all that she could to assist Mrs Dawson in her efforts.

  She smiled.

  At last, she seemed to have found her calling.

  *

  The arrival in Great Paxford of American servicemen with money in their pockets had transformed the fortunes of the Brindsley family. Trade at the once-struggling emporium picked up as the GIs homed in on sweets and chocolate – candy, as they called it. Every type of boiled sweet went down well. When Joyce Cameron came in for two ounces of pear drops, she found them temporarily unavailable. Bars of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk, Turkish Delight and Fry’s Chocolate Cream were snapped up. Expensive boxes of Milk Tray were in great demand. The GIs bought quantities of evaporated milk and stacks of the Nescafé tins that Joyce hadn’t been sure would sell. Sales of Marmite unexpectedly soared and word soon spread that the salted potato crisps (or chips) that Miriam had started making were every bit as good as the best brands available in the States. No sooner was a fresh batch ready than it was sold out.

  Miriam found all the GIs unfailingly polite. They tipped their caps, addressed her as ‘Ma’am’ and held open the door for other customers. And they never seemed concerned by the price of anything.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Miriam said as she and Bryn cashed up one night. The GIs had been in the village for a week and business had improved with each passing day. ‘I knew all we had to do was hold steady and that in time things would come right. ’

  Bryn smiled. ‘You’re always right, love,’ he said. ‘You must have a sixth sense. ’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the sign over the shop,’ she said. ‘Brindsley and Son. When it was just the butcher’s and we were expecting David to take things over eventually, it felt right, but now we’ve a much bigger business and there’s Vivian to think about. Once she’s older she’ll be part of it, too. I don’t know, Bryn – it feels as if we need to change that sign. ’

  The same thought had occurred to him. ‘What did you have in mind – Brindsley and Family, perhaps?’

  ‘How about just Brindsley’s? It’s what everyone calls it anyway, and it tells you right away it’s a family business, one that includes all of us. ’

  Bryn nodded. ‘I like it. Brindsley’s. It sounds . . . posh. Like that fancy London store on Oxford Street. ’ He frowned, trying to think of the name.

  ‘Selfridges,’ Miriam supplied.

&nbs
p; Bryn nodded. ‘Or the other one, Harrods. ’

  ‘Brindsley’s – purveyors of fine foods. ’

  ‘By Royal Appointment!’

  They both laughed. ‘I’ll look into getting a new sign made. ’ Bryn chuckled. ‘Brindsley’s . . . the Harrods of the North!’

  *

  David was spending the evening at Jenny’s. Her mother was away, visiting her sister in Nantwich, and was not expected back until later. She ’d promised to telephone before setting off, so that Jenny knew when her bus would be arriving.

  It was a rare opportunity for the pair to enjoy some real privacy and David was feeling nervous. All he could think about was what, if anything, Jenny was expecting from him. In all the time they had been seeing one another, he had kept the scarring on his back hidden from her. They’d finally spoken at length about his injuries, but he sensed she had little grasp of just how terrible they were. She didn’t care about his scars, she said; she loved him anyway, and he believed her. But all the same – even he winced at their appearance. He had tried so hard to hide the thick red welts that cracked and split and left his shirts bloody, the skin that was forever puckered and angry-looking. No amount of time would make them disappear. He would never forget the look of horror on his mother’s face the first time she ’d caught sight of them.

  How Jenny would react, he could only imagine.

  Which was why he had no intention of letting her see them.

  As they sat on the settee at her mother’s house, Jenny curled into him, the wireless playing some dance tune, he began to panic. ‘Shall we go to the pub?’ he suggested.

  Jenny sat up, surprised. ‘I thought you might . . . want to stay in, since we’ve got the house to ourselves. ’

  ‘I do,’ David said, ‘it’s just . . . ’

  She kept her eyes on him. ‘Mum won’t be back for ages, and she’ll phone anyway. ’

  ‘I know, but . . . ’

  Jenny cupped his face in her hands. ‘We can go upstairs. ’

  His heart lurched. It was what he wanted more than anything. And yet—

  ‘Maybe we should wait. ’ He winced to hear himself sounding so feeble, especially when he saw the look of hurt on her face. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to,’ he said. ‘It’s just, I . . . ’

  I don’t want you to see me. I’m afraid that once you do, I’ll lose you.

  Jenny bit her lip. ‘David, I thought you wanted to be with me. Properly. ’

  ‘I do. I do. ’ He reached for her hand, and she pulled it away.

  ‘Then tell me why you’re being like this, blowing hot and cold, making me feel as if you don’t even like me. ’ She sounded as if she might cry.

  ‘I love you, you daft thing. ’ He gently turned her to face him. ‘You’re smart, you’re beautiful, you’re resourceful and kind and . . . Well, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. ’ He bit his lip. ‘I’m scared, that’s all. I’m not like you. I’m . . . ugly. And once you see . . . everything, I’m just worried that’s going to be the end of us. ’

  ‘Stop it,’ Jenny said. ‘I’ve told you, I don’t care about the scars. ’ She held out a hand. ‘You can’t keep hiding, shutting me out, because that’s what will kill us, not the scars on your back. You need to trust me, and if you can’t, well . . . ’ She shrugged.

  ‘I can,’ David said. ‘I can. ’

  *

  They made love on the narrow bed in her room. When Jenny saw his back, she wept. Although she had heard about his heroism on the ship, seeing what it had cost him made her realise the full extent of his selflessness. The bravery he had shown, in risking his life to save others, made her love him even more.

  As they lay facing each other, she stroked his face and told him he was perfect.

  David shook his head. ‘I’m not. ’

  ‘Perfect for me,’ she said, gazing at him. ‘I never want to be without you. I want to be your wife, David. I want to marry you. ’

  He blinked.

  ‘Why not?’ Jenny said. ‘We love each other, don’t we?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s just, the last thing I was expecting was . . . a proposal. ’

  She looked serious. ‘I’m not playing – I mean it. After everything you’ve been through, the heartache and loss and pain this war keeps on dishing out – what’s the point of waiting? What exactly are we waiting for?’

  David shook his head. ‘I don’t know. ’

  She kissed him. ‘I’m still waiting for an answer. ’

  David laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes!’

  *

  Miriam was knitting a V-neck slipover for Bryn using wool unpicked from an old cardigan of hers and a pattern for something with sleeves that she had managed to adapt. It wasn’t the best colour, a kind of brownish orange with purple flecks, but the wool was soft and it would do. She stretched out her legs and rested her feet on the pouffe. Bryn was in the armchair facing her with his copy of The Modern Grocer. At his side, lying peacefully in her pram, was Vivian.

  ‘Gold lettering or green?’ Bryn asked, back on the subject of the new sign.

  Miriam finished counting stitches before she replied. ‘There’s a grocer in Chester, he’s been there years. All traditional, very high-class. Maybe we should take a look at what he’s got. ’

  Bryn nodded. ‘Good idea, we’ll have a trip. ’

  He had his nose back in his book and Miriam was tackling the tricky ribbed edging around the arm of the jumper when David and Jenny arrived. ‘Had a good evening?’ Miriam asked, without looking up.

  ‘Not bad,’ David said. He grinned at Jenny, who gave him a playful dig in the ribs.

  Miriam nodded, her eyes still on her knitting. ‘Let me get to the end of this line and I’ll make you a drink. ’

  David glanced at Jenny. ‘In a bit. ’

  ‘Just tell them,’ Jenny whispered, beaming at him.

  Miriam, in the middle of a line, caught the excitement in her voice and looked up.

  David took a breath. ‘Ma, Dad . . . we’re getting married. ’

  For a moment, Miriam was too startled to speak. She let go of the knitting, dropping several stitches. ‘Oh!’ she managed.

  David laughed. ‘Oh. Is that all you’ve got to say?’

  For once she seemed lost for words. Her eyes shone, and she felt as if she might burst with happiness. ‘It’s the best news,’ she managed. ‘Isn’t it the best news, love?’

  Bryn was grinning. ‘It is, Mim, the best we could have wished for. ’ He got to his feet and shook his son’s hand, planted a kiss on Jenny’s cheek. ‘Congratulations to the pair of you. I’ll get that bottle of vintage port I put aside for a special occasion. If this doesn’t warrant opening it, I don’t know what will!’

  ‘When’s it going to be, then?’ Miriam said, scooping up Vivian, who remained fast asleep, and going to congratulate them. ‘What about May, when there’s blossom on the trees? Or June, to be sure of decent weather? And you’ll want St Mark’s, now the vicar’s back . . . ’

  ‘Give them a chance, love,’ Bryn said, laughing.

  ‘We’ve not decided anything yet,’ David said.

  Jenny caught hold of his hand. ‘We wanted to tell you straight away,’ she said.

  ‘Well, we couldn’t be happier for you,’ Miriam told her. ‘Welcome to the family. ’

  ‘Tell you what, Mim,’ Bryn said. ‘I reckon we ’d better get cracking and change that sign over the shop. ’

  Chapter 43

  P

  AT COULD NOT QUITE bring herself to give up on Marek. On the walks she took into the countryside surrounding the village, she felt his hand in hers, urging her to be strong. ‘We must trust one another to endure periods of silence,’ he had said. ‘I will be thinking about you. You must believe it. ’

  Writing about him helped. It made her feel more closely connected to him. Each word she wrote
anchored him ever more securely in her heart. As the months went by she promised to wait, to be there on his return. For as long as it takes. Whenever she felt hope fading, she took a leaf from Miriam’s book, trusting that her prayers would surely one day be answered. It was simply a case of keeping faith. If she believed, she could make it happen.

  Until. One morning she woke feeling overwhelmed by despair, tears running into her pillow. She felt less hopeful about the world than she had since Bob’s death. Under cover of darkness as she slept, it seemed that every fragment of hope she ’d been clinging to so resolutely had deserted her, simply fled into the night. Something had changed. Everything. Her prayers were no longer of any use; her faith had turned to dust. She must face the truth.

  Marek was gone.

  She knew it.

  As she grieved, she wrote, more than ever, drawing inspiration from the love they’d shared.

  I may have lost you, my love, but I will never forget you. You are forever in my heart.

  *

  On the day word finally came, she was not at home. The night before, she ’d completed the alterations to Frances’s Dior evening gown and decided to take it round first thing after breakfast. Frances barely recognised the dress. In its original state it had been sleeveless, with a plunging neck and back and a generous skirt with a short train. Now, the hemline ended an inch below the knee and the bodice had been reworked to include a neat little keyhole effect. Pat had used fine tulle from the generous underskirt to fashion sleeves. As she had anticipated, there was enough fabric to make a short boxy jacket to complete the outfit.

  ‘Pat, you’re an absolute genius,’ Frances said, turning this way and that to check her reflection in the mirror in her bedroom. ‘You should set up a dressmaking business. I’m quite serious. Think of all the perfectly good evening gowns hanging at the back of wardrobes, worn once or twice and then abandoned, all crying out for you to get your hands on them. Once word got round, you’d have women from miles around beating a path to your door. ’

  Pat laughed. ‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘I might just do that. Nothing too formal – I wouldn’t want too many demanding clients, and what with the money left from Bob, it’s not as though I need to work . . . But there’s something wonderful, isn’t there, about taking something forgotten and making it good as new?’