WRITE ME A LOVE STORY Ch 3

WRITE ME A LOVE STORY

By Janet Baldey

CHAPTER 3 

For a few weeks after Frank left, I ignored market day.  In the past, it had been a regular weekly event and the sale of our produce had made all the difference to our finances, but following his departure, I hid myself away like a wounded animal.  Fully aware I’d be the centre of attention as an abandoned wife, I dreaded the thought of the pitying looks and pointing fingers.   It took a curt letter from the Bank to twist my arm.   The farm was now running on credit and I needed every penny I could raise. Reluctantly, I realised the time had come for me to hold my head high and face out the stares and whispers.

Perversely, once I had made this decision, I began to look forward to it.  Market day had always been an opportunity to catch up on gossip, and recently there'd been little chance of that.  Apart from the occasional tradesman, I’d seen no-one except Sarah.   Sarah was my best and oldest friend and although she lived over five miles away, she’d made the trek across the soft and rolling hills as soon as she’d heard the news.  

After my tears had dried, we sat looking at each other while the steam from a freshly boiled kettle filled my tiny kitchen.

‘What you need.’  Sarah said.   ‘Is a dog to keep you company.’

I shook my head.  I’d had a dog once.  Sandy, a collie cross.   Sandy was elderly when we first leased the farm and, by degrees, grew more arthritic until some days she could barely stumble outside to do her business.   One evening Frank took her for a walk, a gun by his side.   When he returned he was on his own.

‘It was the kindest thing,’ he’d said.

I remember staring at him, at first too shocked to react.  Then my fists clenched and I started screaming at him.

‘How could you have done that?  I never even said goodbye!’

Frank shrugged.

‘Her life was becoming a misery and if you’d had your way it would have dragged on and on.’

 I’d sank into a chair, my hands covering my face. At last I looked up and saw Frank hovering in the doorway, his face was half defiant, half sheepish and he wouldn’t look at me.   Maybe he thought he was doing the right thing and during the next few days, I decided he might have been right, but even so it had taken a long time for me to forgive him.  From then on I’d vowed that no other dog would take Sandy’s place.

* * *

As I laid out my wares on the trestle table, I realised how pathetic they looked.   There were eggs, potatoes and beets but I hadn’t had time to make any butter or cheese.  At the last moment, I’d raided my store cupboard and added some bottled fruit and jam.  After all, with Frank gone I wouldn’t need so much.   I remembered how much he had loved my home-made preserves and my heart twisted.

By now, the other stallholders were arriving.   As soon as they saw me, they stopped what they were doing and came over.   Soon I was surrounded by a crowd of women and warm words washed over me like a softly lapping tide.

‘I heard my dear…silly bugger.’

‘These men…’  

‘Fools they are…’. 

‘What they won’t do for a bit of glory…’

As they spoke, they comforted me, put their arms about me, patted me and stroked my hair. 

Up until then I’d kept my emotions under control but their kindness was too much.   My eyes began to fill and desperately I looked around, blinking furiously.   Then I saw Sarah and Sarah understood, as I knew she would.

Winking, she made a clacking gesture with her hands and lifted her eyes to Heaven.   Putting her fingers in her mouth, she whistled and the shrill sound cut through the hubbub.

‘Come on ladies.   Give the girl a rest; we’ve got customers to fleece.’  

Chuckling, the women began to move away.   But they hadn’t done with me yet.   One by one they returned, each bearing a gift, a round ripe cheese, tomatoes, runner beans, watercress, a trussed chicken.   Brushing away my thanks, they piled their offerings onto my table before returning to their stalls.

Overwhelmed, I stood looking around from out of blurred eyes.  Suddenly, a ray of sun broke through the clouds and the figures moving slowly around the square were picked out in gold and my spirits soared.  I’d forgotten how kind people could be.  None of them was rich, all worked hard but they’d given willingly and somewhere deep inside me a tiny ember ignited and warmth coursed through me as I realised that, in this ancient place, similar small acts of kindness must have taken place all through the centuries. I crossed my fingers, praying that it would always be so.

As if denying my prayer, a deafening roar shattered the sky and faces, aged by shock, swung towards the East.   Flying low over the horizon was a huge plane, hedge-hopping across the fields, its wings skimming the trees as it chased its own shadow.   As it drew nearer, its Luftwaffe crosses were clearly visible.

Hands were clapped to ears and panicked voices screamed out from the crowd.

‘It’s a bloody Heinkel!’

‘It’ll blow us to smithereens!’

Everyone had heard horror stories of Nazi bombers jettisoning unexploded bombs to speed their way across the channel, especially if they were being chased by British fighters.

Suddenly, a shrill screech pierced the air.   Mad Meg was standing, her scrawny arms outstretched towards the sky, her fingers hooked into claws.   Spittle flying from her lips, she howled abuse at the bomber, her greasy hair whirling about her head.

A silent tableau of villagers stood around the raving woman watching the plane’s progress.  As their eyes swivelled, the monster disappeared into the murk and as the rent in the clouds sealed over the dull beat of its engines faded into the distance.

‘Good for you, Meggie.   You saw ‘im off.’  A voice roared ebullient with relief.

Immediately, a gale of laughter erupted as people slipped back into their lives and went about their business.

* * *

My unsold wares packed up ready to go; I was having a last word with Sarah when I felt a hand brush my shoulder.   It was Becca, Joe Smith’s wife.   As usual, she had a grubby toddler in tow; the child ducked behind its mother peeping out at us from time to time, twin canals of slime oozing from its nose.  Once more, Becca’s skirt was stretched tight over her belly.   Long ago I’d lost count of the number of children swarming through the dilapidated farmhouse the Smiths called home.

‘Joe asked me to remind you that you got Prince booked the second week in September.’   

I gasped.   With all that had been going on, it had completely slipped my mind.   Second week in September!  That was just over five weeks time.    Round as an apple and kind as a Christian, Prince’s chestnut bulk was a familiar sight in the fields.  Most of the small farmers used Joe’s horse.   It worked to everyone’s advantage.  Hiring a heavy horse was cheaper than owning one and Joe made a tidy bit of money without lifting much more than a finger.

‘Have you ever worked with a carthorse afore?’

I shook my head.   That had always been Frank’s job.   I could deal with Barley, but the thought of turning a collar over Prince’s huge, restless head worried me more than I liked to admit.

I stared into her wet, black eyes. As usual, they were inscrutable.  Once Frank had almost bought a mare with eyes like that.   An old horseman friend of ours had advised against it.  

‘Somewhere along the line, that mare’s been marked,’ he’d said.   ‘Never trust an animal with eyes like that.’  

   ‘Daresay Joe’ll help.’  Becca’s gaze slid over my face.  ‘It’ll be an extra mind.’

When she’d gone, Sarah looked at me.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

         ‘If I know Joe, he won’t be able to drag himself away from the pub.’  I said, forcing my lips into a smile.

         Sarah’s eyes darkened.   ‘Oh yes he will.’   She bent towards me, her eyes were intense.

         ‘Just you take very great care.   You hear me?’

Copyright Janet Baldey