Write me a Love Story Ch 9

Write me a Love Story Ch 9

By Janet Baldey

CHAPTER 9

         As the days shortened, the work on the farm intensified.  Autumn is always a busy season and this year was no different:  every day that passed carried us nearer to winter and it was essential that the farm should be battened down and weatherproofed before the first of the snow came. Time was passing and there was a burning sense of urgency about everything we did.  I hadn’t thought it possible to work any harder but with Georg by my side I did, and although I got tired it wasn’t with the mind-numbing exhaustion of earlier days. 

        

         By the end of October, we’d planted a crop of spring greens in the top field, checked the hedges and fencing around the farm and cleared the ditches of debris.  My woodshed was full and the barn was stacked to the roof with bales of hay for the cows.  As soon as the weather showed signs of closing in, I would have to bring them in from the field and pen them in the yard.
        

         But although winter was hovering just across the threshold, there were still days when it was warm enough to dry washing outside. One day I had just finished pegging out when it struck me that I hadn’t thought of the war for ages.  I looked around:  the farmhouse dozed in the sunshine, Georg was busy cutting wood and there was the occasional flash as sunlight caught the blade. All I could hear was the dull thwack of the axe and the contented chuckling of the hens pecking at the ground. It was all so peaceful; it seemed impossible that only a few hundred miles away people were fighting and dying. I felt a sudden stab of melancholy. Something was wrong and sometimes in the long reaches of the night I lay awake trying to work it out.  Surely, with a husband in the army I should be out of my mind with worry. Instead, for days at a time I never thought about Frank at all. I knew it wasn’t so with the other women.  Whenever I went to market I could see the lines etched upon their faces deepening week by week. Almost all had a husband, son, or brother in the forces and many had relatives in the cities and they were constantly on edge. I wondered what was wrong with me. Maybe all those sterile years growing up in the orphanage had killed something inside me; some essential spark had been snuffed out from lack of early love. Perhaps I was a freak. But if I couldn’t feel it followed that I couldn’t suffer and I couldn’t work out if that was a blessing or a curse.

        

         Enough:  I dumped my laundry basket on the ground. I would go for a ride.   That would lift me out of the doldrums. Maybe I would visit Sarah at Fernside; after all it might be my last chance before the bad weather set in.

        

         Rising and settling in the saddle, I felt my face glow as the wind combed my hair straight back from my scalp. Barley seemed just as exhilarated and her hooves skimmed the tussocks, propelling her plump body over the ground in a steady canter.    

        

         All around us the world was changing colour. The tips of the reeds surrounding the marshy pools were yellow, and a squally wind sent showers of flame coloured leaves raining down from the trees. Even the sky was different, its blue containing a hint of steel.

        

         As we clattered into the yard we were met by Tom.

        

         “Here. I’ll take her.” He grasped the pony’s bridle. “Nice to see you, Flora.   Sarah’s in the kitchen. Go on through.”

        

         Sarah’s face, red and shiny from baking, shone even more as I walked into the room.

         “

         How lovely. Come and give us a hug.” She held out her arms. “You’ve timed it just right. We can have a good natter before the mob get back from school. You must try some of my Christmas cake and see what you think.”

        

         I sank into a soft chair listening to the chink of china and water gushing into the kettle.  Sarah’s kitchen was larger than mine, chaotic but cheerful with sunshine yellow paintwork.  Scrawled crayoned drawings were tacked to the walls and cupboard door and I felt a sudden pang.  Children had never been part of Frank’s plan and sometimes I envied Sarah and Tom.       

At last Sarah put a loaded tray onto a low table and collapsed into a chair opposite. She filled our cups and we exchanged a few nuggets of gossip but then I found myself telling her what I suddenly realised had been in the back of my mind all along; my scene with Becca.

        

         “I really don’t know what I’ve done to upset her, Sarah. But she seems to hate me.”

        

         Sarah was quiet for a long time. When she looked up, her eyes were wary.

         “Of course, you know what it’s really all about don’t you?”

        

         “Haven’t a clue. What do you mean?”

        

         “Do you remember when you first arrived in the village?  When you started work at the Manor?”

        

           “Yes, of course.” As if I could ever forget; it was my first glimpse of life outside the orphanage and I’d been scared to death.

        

         “Becca, used to work there as well. I don’t know whether you realised that.   She left just before you arrived. I say left, she was sacked actually. There was some sort of scandal.  I don’t know the details, but I do know that Becca has always suffered from sticky fingers.”

        

         “No, I didn’t know.  But what’s that got to do with me?”

        

         Sarah pursed her lips, tilting her head to one side.“Perhaps you remember a certain gardener’s boy?  A very good looking lad as I recall.”

        

         “Frank?”

        

         She nodded.  “Before you arrived, he and Becca had been going steady for a long time. Then, she went and you came along and nabbed her man.”

         I gaped at her.

         “

         Close your mouth, Flora.”

        

         “I never knew that. Honest I didn’t. But in any case, that was years ago. She’s married to Joe now.”

         “Not much of a catch though, is he? I’ve always thought she married him on the rebound. I have a feeling she’s never got over Frank. In fact…..” Her mouth snapped shut.

        

         “What?”

 “Nothing.”

        

         “Come on, Sarah. You started to say something. You must tell me now.”

        

         She gave a sigh. “Look, I shouldn’t be saying this. I don’t really know if it’s true or not, it’s just that something tells me….” Her voice trailed into silence.

        

         “Sarah!”

        

         “Okay. It’s just that sometimes I wonder if it ever finished.”

        

         All the breath left my body, and I sat feeling as if I’d been punched in the stomach.  Then, I shook my head until the tips of my hair stung my cheeks.

        

         “No. You’re quite wrong. You must be.”

        

         “It’s possible.”

        

         Time paused as the suggestion settled into my mind.  “Well, I’ll find out when he gets back.”

         It was then that Sarah dropped her second bombshell.

“If he comes back.”

        

         “What do you mean?”

        

         “Flora, how certain are you that Frank has actually joined the Army?” 

“What are you talking about?  Of course he has.”

“But it was very strange that he didn’t discuss it with you first wasn’t it?   And he left very suddenly.  Do you know where he’s stationed?  And what’s his regiment?”

Dumbly, I stared at her. I had no idea and these were basic questions. Feeling a little sick, I realised that, in a normal relationship, any wife would have known the answers.

        

         “I’m really sorry love, but I’m not the only one who wonders.  Rumours are flying around the village and it’s best you should learn what’s being said from a friend.”

        

         She hesitated. “There is one more thing. You know that Becca”s expecting again. She must have found out round about the time Frank left.”

        

         “So what, Becca’s always pregnant.”

        

         “But perhaps this time it’s different. Maybe this time it’s not Joe’s baby.  And if it isn’t Flora, what do men do when they’re in a fix? “

* * *

It was a good thing that Barley knew the way back.  As the pony’s hooves left a swathe of flattened grass behind us, I slumped in the saddle. I’d been watching Sarah’s face as she talked. The look in her eyes had told me a lot; she hadn’t been repeating idle gossip simply for the sake of it. She believed all she’d told me; otherwise I was sure she wouldn’t have said a word.  Sarah was no fool and neither was she a mischief maker. I thought of the letters Frank had sent. At the time I’d noticed there was no address. I’d put it down to carelessness but the more I thought about it, the stranger it seemed.  And it was odd the way he’d changed in the weeks before he left. The way he kept shutting himself away: he said it was to listen to the news but maybe that wasn’t the whole truth.  And what was it people said?  ‘The wife is always the last to know.’ 
        

I thought I was in for another sleepless night but to my surprise, I slept soundly and awoke refreshed. As I dressed, there was lightness in my movements as if a great weight had been lifted from me. At some point during the night something had changed and at first I couldn’t think what. I ran downstairs to fill the kettle and switched on the wireless, and it was while I was humming in tune with the music that I suddenly realised that I no longer felt guilty about not loving Frank.

Copyright Janet Baldey