enemy.
Perhaps it had something to do with the pent-up despair he had seen in Shearing, or the fact that he was coming from the city and going home to the land he loved. In another hour or so he would pass along the very length of road where his parents had been killed. It would look just as it had on the hot June day when he and Joseph had first seen the gouge marks on the surface, and the broken twigs, the scars on the bark, mute witnesses of the violence that had cost so much.
And it still hurt to go into the house in St. Giles, with its familiar hallway, the furniture he had grown up with, the way the light fell in patterns he could see even with his eyes closed. But his mother would not be in the kitchen, nor his father in the study.
“My son,” the old man said with choking pride as he touched a gnarled hand to the black band. “Gallipoli. They buried him out there.”
Matthew nodded. There was nothing to say. The man did not want understanding, and there was no help to give. Platitudes showed one’s own need to attempt something that was impossible.
He finished his meal and went back to the car. He was in Selborne St. Giles by ten past nine. The main street was quiet. Children were in school. The village shop was open, newspapers outside full of the same sort of thing as always these days, the Dardanelles, the Western Front, politics; nothing he was unaware of, and certainly nothing he wanted to read.
He turned off the main street and along the short distance to the house. It looked silent in the morning, almost unoccupied. In the imagination he still saw his father’s yellow Lanchester that Judith had sneaked the chance to drive whenever she could. Hannah had never wanted to. Before the war she had had no need, there was always someone to drive her. Now few people had vehicles. Petrol was expensive. Tradesmen did not make deliveries anymore, the men who would have performed such a service were in the army. People walked, and carried. If they lived too far out, then there were dog carts, pony traps if you were lucky. God knew how many horses were in the army, too, poor beasts!
He switched off the engine, took his small case out of the boot, and went to the front door. It was unlocked. He hesitated before pushing it open. It was an idiotic moment, but just for an instant time telescoped and it was a year ago. Hannah would be in Portsmouth, Joseph at St. John’s in Cambridge, but everyone else would be here. His mother would be pleased to see him, thinking about what she could make for dinner that he would like.
His father would leave his study and they would take the dog and walk around the garden together, deep in contemplation, admiring the view across the fields without ever needing to speak of it, knowing its goodness with quiet certainty, the great elms would stand deep-skirted, silent above the grass. Starlings would whirl up against the sky, and the poplars would shimmer gold in the sunset breeze.
He pushed the door open and went in. The first thing he saw in the hall was Hannah’s daughter Jenny’s blue coat on the hook by the cloakroom door. She was eight, and possibly at school today, but it was too warm for her to have needed it.
The dog came bounding up the hall, wagging his tail, and Matthew bent to pat him. “Hello, Henry! How are you old fellow?” He straightened up and called Hannah.
There was a moment’s silence, then she appeared from the kitchen. Her hair was almost the same color as her mother’s had been, and she had the same wide, brown eyes. It cost him all the strength he had to make himself smile. He must love her for herself, for her griefs and joys, not because she reminded him of someone else. She was probably missing Alys even more than he was. They had been so close, and now she was in so many ways taking her place in the village, trying to pick up in the multitude of small duties, kindnesses, unseen things that Alys had done over the years. And she was living here in this house where the past was like an echo to every word, a reflection gone the moment before one glanced at the mirror.
Her face lit with surprise and pleasure. “Matthew! You didn’t say you were coming! You just missed Judith, but I’m sure you know that!” She came toward him quickly, drying her hands on her long, white apron. She was wearing a plum pink dress with a skirt fashionably close at the ankle, but he knew enough to see that it was last year’s cut.
He put his arms around her and hugged her closely, feeling how quickly she responded. She must miss Archie dreadfully. She probably was not even allowed to know where he was. It was her duty to keep up the facade of confidence for their three children, Tom, Jenny, and Luke, and hide whatever her fears were, her loneliness or the long hours of gnawing uncertainty. And it was not only about Archie, it had to be about Judith and Joseph as well. If she had very little idea what it was actually like in the trenches, of the horror or the daily hardship, so much the better. He hoped Judith had been as discreet as she had promised.
Hannah drew back in surprise. “You’re squashing me!” she said with a smile, but her eyes were searching his, afraid he had come with bad news. The closeness with which he had held her awoke fear.
He smiled back broadly. “Sorry,” he apologized. “It’s just good to be home, and to find you here.” She had moved up from Portsmouth a few months ago. Archie seldom had leave, and when he did it was for long enough to come to Cambridgeshire. It was foolish to let the house lie empty and none of them had wanted to lease it to strangers.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“No, but I’d love a cup of tea.”
She led the way to the kitchen. It looked as it always had, blue-and-white china on the Welsh dresser, the brown earthenware jugs with milk and cream on them in white, the half dozen large plates hand painted with wildflowers and grasses on the wall. She had been making pastry and the mixing bowls, white inside, ocher on the outside, were still on the big wooden table.
She piled the coals in the stove then pulled the kettle over to the hob. For a quarter of an hour they talked of the village, and people they both knew.
“Bibby Nunn was killed,” she said, gazing at him over the top of the cup she was holding in both hands, as if she were cold. “They heard yesterday. Mae Teversham was one of the first to go to Sarah. Ridiculous, isn’t it, that it should take a death that could have happened to either of them, to bring that stupid argument to an end. Both Mae’s boys are out there, too, and it could be her turn next. I think everyone feels that.”
He nodded.
“And Jim Bullen from the farm on the Madingley Road lost his leg in France and he’s now invalided home. Roger Harradine was missing in action. His father’s grieving silently. He can’t even speak of it yet, but Maudie still hasn’t given up hope.”
They had finished tea and were walking in the garden before he dared ask what she had heard from Archie lately.
She was staring at the weeds in the flower bed. “I miss Archie,” she said quietly. “I can’t keep ahead of it. The children do as much as they can. Tom’s pretty good, although he doesn’t like gardening. Luke is too young, but he tries.” She blinked quickly, turning away. She would say nothing to him, she would consider it disloyal, but he knew how hard it was for her without Archie. They all missed him, but she was the only one who knew the danger he was in. She read the newspapers and knew every time a ship went down. She hid her fear from them.
She took a deep breath, still staring at the raspberry bed that was Joseph’s favorite. He couldn’t pass it without picking half a dozen, when they were ripe. “He says he’s fine,” she answered his question. “Tom is praying the war will go on long enough for him to join the navy, too,” she said with an attempt at a laugh.
Mathew put his hand on her shoulder. “He’s got a father to be proud of. You can’t blame him for wanting to be like him.”
“He’s only thirteen!” she protested, her eyes blazing, swimming in tears. “He’s a child, Matthew! He hasn’t any idea what he’s talking about. He thinks it’s all exciting and brave and wonderful. He doesn’t know how many men get maimed or killed, or how many are blown to bits. And when a ship goes down, they hardly ever save anybody.”
“I know,” he agreed. “But do you want Tom to have the same nightmares you do?”
She turned away sharply. “No! Of course I don’t!”
“Then you’ll just have to put up with it, and thank God he is thirteen, and not fifteen,” he said as gently as he could. “And be glad Luke’s only five.”
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, her cheeks momentarily flushed. “It was good to have Judith here, even if it was only a day and a half. She’s changed, hasn’t she!” She laughed as if at herself. “She’s so competent lately, so . . . full of purpose. She’s just as emotional as ever, but now it all has direction. It seems almost wicked to say it, but
