A Woman's Courage Page 5

  Alison pursed her lips. ‘Not everything works out in the end. ’

  ‘But some things do. Sometimes you just have to follow your heart and hope for the best. ’

  *

  Once Teresa had left, Alison spent the rest of the morning working, sorting through a substantial mound of papers. Bills and receipts, various dog-eared scraps comprising illegible jottings and figures she had not found easy to decipher. She took off her spectacles, rubbed at her eyes and straightened up, feeling a twinge of discomfort in her back. The small pull-down desk on her writing bureau was most certainly not designed for office work.

  She gazed at the mess in front of her, which had been delivered the day before in a series of envelopes. Needs a bit of sorting out, she was warned. It turned out to be quite an understatement.

  When she had first trained as a bookkeeper, she thought of it as an occupation in which order reigned supreme. Precision was needed – logic, which was what she found appealing. Alison enjoyed filling columns with figures, dealing in numbers, knowing there was a correct answer. Everything was certain, clear, black and white. It was once you strayed into grey areas that problems ensued; she knew all about that.

  And yet, at times, it felt as if what she did demanded a huge element of interpretation, particularly where some of her older, long-standing clients were concerned. A few, the ones whose books she had been doing for a number of years and knew well, were in the habit of gathering up every bit of paper they could find and thrusting it at her in the hope she would make sense of it all. On occasion, it felt as if she were engaged in a complex puzzle, searching endlessly for a single elusive piece of evidence which, when discovered, would create further problems: the ink long since faded, the handwriting unreadable. She thought with a weary sigh of the dust-covered receipts written in pencil – pencil! – which came to her once a year from the cobbler whose books she maintained.

  Increasingly, her work involved a degree of querying to ensure she was on the right lines. In her younger days, when she had less patience, Alison would have been frustrated by all the toing and froing. But now, for the most part, she found a sense of satisfaction in solving such puzzles. Earlier, she had examined under a magnifying glass the untidy scrawl on the back of a single receipt, wondering at its significance. Just as she was on the point of conceding defeat, she double-checked her sums and worked out where it fitted. Triumphant, she had put it on the relevant pile and written the final figures in the ledger.

  Order restored.

  She went out into the garden to cut a few of the pink roses that grew wild and wound themselves through the hedge. It had been raining hard this morning, but now the sun was getting out and the air smelled of mint and wet grass. She breathed it in. In the past, on such a day, she ’d have pulled on her stout shoes and taken Boris to the woods for as long a walk as he could manage. Towards the end, that had not been very far. He had reached a point where he seemed to stop enjoying the woods altogether, preferring to stick to the lanes or root about in the garden. It was less demanding, she supposed.

  She had not yet got used to being without him.

  In recent years, Boris had been her steadfast companion, a loyal best friend. He made her feel less alone – and yet, at the same time, she felt that he had an acute understanding of her loneliness. She wished that dogs had longer lives; it seemed deeply unfair that Boris managed just short of eleven years before passing quietly away.

  She blinked away tears. There was no shame in feeling sad, she told herself, even about a dog. And Boris had been so much more, whatever anyone else might think. The important thing was not to wallow when others were going through so much. She thought of Pat, Erica, Frances – all now widowed. And there was Sarah, so anxious about Adam. Seeing her in church putting such a brave face on things had touched Alison.

  In many respects, she felt fortunate, one of the lucky ones. She missed Boris, but these days she felt content in a way she had not for some time.

  *

  John arrived with a posy of fragrant sweet peas just as she was tidying her work away.

  ‘They’re lovely,’ Alison said. ‘I’ve got some like these in the garden. ’

  John smiled. ‘Ah, well, they’re not just in the garden anymore. They’ve managed to find their way under the hedge and now they’re climbing up the other side. There’s quite a display. I hope you don’t mind that I picked a few. ’

  ‘Of course not. You’re meant to cut them, I think – it keeps them flowering. ’ Smiling, she went into the kitchen and found a vase to put them in.

  John leaned against the doorway. ‘Something smells good,’ he said.

  She looked up. ‘Nothing more exciting than a Woolton pie, I’m afraid. I couldn’t come up with anything more exotic. ’

  ‘It sounds good to me,’ he said. ‘Nothing beats home cooking. ’

  John loved to cook himself, but there was no kitchen in the hostel, and he mostly made do with sandwiches from the café down the road these days. There wasn’t always a choice and sometimes he wasn’t quite sure about the filling, which was more often than not some kind of strong-smelling spread that the woman serving called ‘bloater paste’. It was fish, she said. John liked fish, but this was nothing like any fish he had ever tasted. This was . . . well, he wasn’t sure what it was. The odour was quite overpowering. He ate it anyway. When you were hungry you couldn’t afford to be choosy.

  Alison put the flowers to one side and checked the contents of the oven. ‘I think this is done,’ she said, lifting the pie dish out. The pastry was beautifully browned and crisp, the smell utterly delicious. John had skipped breakfast, and he was ravenous.

  ‘We can eat, if you’re ready,’ Alison said, draining potatoes and cabbage. She tipped gravy from a pan into a china boat. ‘I’m not sure about the sauce, it seems a little thin,’ she said, peering at it.

  John felt his stomach rumble. Thankfully, Alison didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘How are things in Liverpool?’ she asked as they sat down to eat.

  ‘Not too bad,’ he told her. ‘It’s more peaceful anyway, now that the bombing’s stopped. ’

  ‘Do you think that’s an end to it?’

  ‘I hope so. There’s not much left for them to destroy. The place is in pieces. ’

  He had been to look at the spot where his old house once stood, almost the entire row of terraced houses on one side of the street now reduced to rubble. In its midst, two of the properties were somehow still standing. At one end of the row a family had moved back into their ruined home, he saw, even though it was completely open at the front. The woman who lived there, someone he had said hello to once or twice, explained that they would rather stay and make do as best they could. She had managed to salvage a few things, she said; the pantry had not been completely destroyed, and she had retrieved some tinned goods from under a pile of rubble. The problem was she had nothing to cook on. She offered John a tin of custard powder, but it wasn’t any use to him; he had no means of cooking either.

  ‘You must be relieved, not having to trail out here every night,’ Alison said.

  John nodded, although the truth was that he missed the food and shelter the women of Great Paxford’s WI, Alison among them, had provided for those seeking to escape the bombing. For a while, he had been able to count on at least one bowl of hot food a day and a comfortable place to sleep. ‘Things are certainly much quieter,’ he conceded.

  She smiled. ‘I’m glad it’s not so bad anymore. ’

  In some ways it was worse, he thought. But he only smiled and said, ‘This pie is delicious, by the way. It’s got a really good flavour. ’

  ‘Marmite. I wondered if it might help. ’ She watched as he finished his meal. ‘Have you lost weight?’ she asked.

  He had hoped she wouldn’t notice. ‘I don’t think so, maybe a little. I do a lot of walking these days. ’

  ‘Here, you finish this,’ Alison said, sliding what was left of the
pie onto his plate.

  ‘It’s too much,’ he protested. ‘Keep a little back for yourself for later. ’

  She shook her head. ‘I still have soup from yesterday. ’

  ‘Well, then, thank you. I’ll do my best. ’ He made himself eat slowly, savouring every bite. As he did so, he looked up at her and smiled. It was something, really something, to know someone as kind as Alison. Tomorrow he would be relying on whatever delights his local café had to offer.

  Chapter 7

  B

  RYN BRINDSLEY LOCKED UP the shop, took off his white coat and went through to the kitchen where Miriam was putting out their tea: stewing steak in rich gravy, light herby dumplings and the loaf she had baked earlier, cut into thick slices. Now that she had the time, she made bread every day, and it went down a treat with Bryn and David. Miriam suspected she could make twice as much as she did and it would still get eaten. At least flour was not in short supply – not yet, anyway. David dipped a crust into his gravy and bit into it.

  ‘This is great, Ma,’ he said, between mouthfuls. ‘We should open a bakery. Take over next door. Butcher and baker. ’

  ‘And be up half the night toiling over hot ovens?’ Miriam replied.

  ‘I’m teasing,’ David told her.

  ‘I saw Mrs Collins earlier, packing up the last of their things,’ Miriam said. The couple who ran the greengrocer’s next door had decided to shut up shop and head to Scotland to sit out the war. ‘They’re off tomorrow, first thing. ’

  ‘They’ll be missed, no doubt about it,’ Bryn said. ‘There’s always been a fruit and veg shop in the village. Don’t suppose people will be happy when they can’t get their shopping locally. ’

  ‘Told you we should expand,’ David said, giving his father a wink. ‘Get that bakery up and running. Now that Ma’s got time on her hands . . . ’

  Bryn smiled at Miriam. It was sheer joy for them to see David like this. Playful, teasing. This way of life they had once taken for granted – work, easy conversation when they sat down to eat together at the end of the day, the sense of being a close family unit – it was finally coming back. Miriam had not understood how highly she prized the everyday ordinariness of their lives until the war snatched it from them. Even before David went to sea, as soon as he ’d said he wanted to enlist, she had sensed it being torn from her grasp. Now he was back at work in the family butcher’s shop and a good deal happier than he ’d been for a long time.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ David said, ‘about the shop and some changes we might make. ’

  Miriam and Bryn exchanged a look.

  ‘Things are running pretty smoothly most of the time,’ David went on. ‘Even when we’ve got a few customers in together I make sure no one’s kept waiting too long. ’

  ‘You’re very smart when it comes to spinning plates,’ Bryn said.

  ‘There’s a few who like to chat, seem to enjoy the company. They don’t want to be served and out double-quick, but the ones behind don’t want to be held up either. ’ David grinned. ‘But I think I’ve found a way round that. ’

  Another smile passed between Bryn and Miriam. Once or twice they had noticed how David invented a reason for a customer who was inclined to talk to step to one side briefly while he got on with serving whoever else was waiting. He went out of his way to be tactful: ‘If you wouldn’t mind giving me a moment, Mrs So-and-So, I’ll just see to these ladies before I deal with your order. ’ Managing to keep everyone happy. It was a rare gift, Miriam thought.

  It was mostly women who shopped at Brindsley and Son, and David, always courteous, impressively efficient, proved popular. Like his father, David kept a sharpened pencil behind one ear and used it to tot up even the most awkward of sums with accuracy and surprising speed. Customers, used to seeing scribbled (sometimes incomprehensible) workings-out on the paper bag in which their meat purchases came, were now given a neat itemised receipt. It was a small difference, perhaps, but one that was noticed and appreciated. Word went round about the improvements David was making. ‘That boy can keep a conversation going and make out the bill at the same time without a single slip-up,’ Joyce Cameron – something of a stickler – was heard to remark. Even hard-to-please Gwen Talbot took a shine to him. The heroism he ’d shown when his ship was torpedoed, returning to the blazing vessel again and again to pull bodies clear, had earned him enormous respect.

  Miriam couldn’t help but feel proud.

  It hadn’t been long after his homecoming when she realised she was no longer required behind the counter. ‘Surplus to requirements,’ she had told Bryn, amused. ‘All I seem to do is fetch whatever’s needed from the back as and when David says. Without a word being said I’ve ended up as some kind of’ – her eyes widened – ‘junior assistant. ’ They both laughed. ‘I’m back where I started,’ she said, ‘when we first met. ’

  Bryn had raised an eyebrow. ‘We both know you were in charge from day one,’ he told her.

  It had become obvious that David could manage the shop perfectly well without an assistant, junior or otherwise, and, increasingly, Miriam left him to it. She occupied her time checking on Bryn, nipping between the shop and the house to keep an eye on Vivian – until, finally, a few weeks ago, she had suggested stepping back, doing the odd few hours as and when required.

  ‘I could spend more time with Vivian,’ she ’d told Bryn.

  It seemed to Miriam that her daughter was changing and growing each day. She smiled and murmured and cooed, sometimes seeming deep in a world of her own. Miriam longed to know what went on inside her daughter’s head. Soon, she would be on her feet, taking her first steps, and then talking. It would happen so fast, and Miriam didn’t want to miss any of it. Bryn was only too happy to agree. And David was delighted to assume more responsibility. He was doing as much as he could in the shop, although the lifting he ’d once managed with relative ease was now beyond him, and Bryn had to carry the heavy carcasses. There was nothing to be done; the damage to his back was so severe it would never heal. But despite that, David was taking over more and more of the work, and was constantly coming up with small changes in the shop. His enthusiasm for the business, for life in general, was clear.

  Now, Miriam got to her feet. ‘Let me just check on Vivian and then we’ll have afters,’ she said. She had made rice pudding with a thick brown crust. It was a favourite of Bryn’s, who made a point of scraping every bit of caramelised skin from the edge of the bowl.

  *

  Upstairs, Miriam peered into the cot at her sleeping daughter and smoothed her nightdress, admiring the delicate knitted cardigan that had come from Bryn’s mother. Yellow, the colour of sunshine, perfectly complementing Vivian’s cheerful disposition. She was an easy baby, no trouble at all, going down for her nap each afternoon on the dot of three o’clock without complaint and at night sleeping a good six hours. On occasion, Miriam would tiptoe across to her cot to check on her, only to find she was awake, chirping softly to herself, gazing at the mobile suspended above her, utterly contented. It was rare for her to cry. David had been a good baby too, although Miriam remembered more sleepless nights, more pacing up and down in order to get him to settle. She now put his restlessness down to her own lack of confidence as a new mother. For another minute or so she watched Vivian.

  Two perfect children.

  Miriam and Bryn could not quite believe their good fortune.

  When she thought back, it seemed extraordinary that Vivian was here at all, let alone was so placid and good-humoured. Every time she looked at Vivian, the images came flooding into her mind – the first moment she had seen her daughter, the Spitfire crashing through the doctor’s surgery moments later, the bricks and rubble crushing them down. She had thought Vivian was going to die. That was her first thought, before she thought of Bryn, of herself; it seemed so cruel for this little life that had just come into the world to be taken away so soon.

  And Vivian might have died had it n
ot been for Dr Campbell. He had shielded her from the explosion with his body, and they had all managed to get out alive.

  Miriam smiled, shook the memories away. She had every reason to be happy. David was home; Vivian was everything she could have asked for. Miriam knew in her heart the Brindsleys were blessed, that for reasons she was unable to explain they had somehow been singled out for special treatment.

  What had happened with David only confirmed it, as far as she was concerned. When his ship went down and weeks turned into months without news, there had not been the smallest shred of hope for her and Bryn to hold onto. Some – most – would have given up. Not Miriam. She clung to the belief that one day her son would be home.

  And now he was.

  We’re survivors, all of us.

  She went back downstairs, where Bryn and David were still deep in conversation.

  ‘I can manage on my own almost all the time, even when it’s busy,’ David was saying.

  ‘What about on ration day?’ Miriam asked, as she served up the pudding. ‘There’s always a queue, a few grumblings if people have to wait too long. I can give you a hand, keep things moving. ’

  ‘I’ve already thought about that,’ David said.

  Bryn nodded. ‘Go on then, son. ’

  ‘You’re right, it’s our busy day, but I’ve come up with something that should save people having to queue as long. ’

  Bryn glanced at Miriam.

  ‘It’s just an idea,’ David said, but his voice was eager. ‘When you think about it, there’s nothing complicated about the ration system. Everyone gets so much, an allowance based on the household. It’s fixed and less than people are used to, so whatever they’re entitled to, that’s what they want. I’ve been keeping a note of who gets what. It’s always the same from one week to the next. ’ He waited for a reaction.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ Bryn said.

  As Miriam watched this exchange, she thought how different things were now in comparison to how they’d been when David first got home. His experiences in the war had left him scarred in more ways than one, and he had taken out his frustrations on those closest to him. At times it had seemed to Miriam that she was engaged in her own daily battle against the invisible aggressor that occupied her son. At night, unable to sleep for worrying, she had sometimes said as much to Bryn. ‘Give him time,’ he ’d say. ‘Things won’t get better overnight – we have to be patient. ’ But of course she had worried. Her deepest fear was that David blamed them in some way for what had happened. Bryn always insisted she was wrong. ‘He’s taking it out on us because he knows he can, that no matter what he says or does we love him, we always will. ’ He would hold her in his arms and tell her things would come right. ‘He’ll get through this, we all will. ’