doorbell ring. She put down her sewing and went to answer it, taking the needle off the record carefully as she passed. The sudden silence was breathless.
The woman on the step was in her late twenties, but grief and weariness had added years to her. Her hair was pretty, but she had tied it up and back without care and pulled the wave out of it. In the light from the hall, her skin seemed to have no color. She was dressed in a plain dark blue blouse and skirt, and it was apparent at a glance that she had lost weight since Hannah had last seen her.
“Abby! How are you?” she said quickly. “Do come in.” She stepped back to make the invitation almost a command. “You must have time for a cup of tea, or something.”
Abigail Compton hesitated, then agreed as if the battle against such determination were one she knew she would lose. “I only came to ask if you could help to organize people for knitting more socks,” she said awkwardly. “It doesn’t matter how little time they can give, anything at all will help. Sometimes even children can do the straight bits, if an adult can turn the heel.”
“Of course,” Hannah agreed. “Good idea. Would you like a cup of tea? I’m doing the mending and I hate it. I’d love an excuse to stop.” She smiled hopefully.
“Just for a moment or two,” Abby accepted. “I’d like to sit down, I admit.” She looked ready to drop.
“Kitchen all right?” Hannah led the way without waiting for an answer. Abby looked so wretched she determined to get her hot pie and cream as well. Her husband had been killed in France several months ago, but she looked as if the reality of it had struck her only now. There was an awkwardness in the way she moved, almost a clumsiness, as if she were only half aware of her limbs.
The oven was still warm. Hannah took the apple pie from the larder without asking if Abby wanted any, and opened the damper for the heat to increase enough to crisp the pastry again. Then she filled the kettle and set it on the hob to boil.
“I heard about Plugger Arnold,” Abby said softly. “Gangrene. Is that true?”
“Yes. That’s what they said.”
“Paul never told me about that sort of thing.” Abby gave the ghost of a smile. “Have you noticed how the newspapers have changed lately? They don’t write about heroics so much. They don’t use the sort of language that comes out of King Arthur anymore. I like to read Richard Mason, even though it leaves me in tears sometimes. He makes people so real; they’re never just figures.”
“I know what you mean,” Hannah agreed. “You feel as if even the dead are not left without dignity. He must be a very fine man.” She indicated the chairs and they both sat down.
“Talking about fine men,” Abby went on. “Polly Andrews told me your brother Joseph was wounded. Is that true?”
“Yes, but he’ll be all right. I haven’t seen Polly for ages. You mean Tiddly Wop Andrews’s sister? He’s in Joseph’s regiment.”
Abby smiled. “I used to be crazy about him when I was fourteen.”
“He was awfully good looking,” Hannah agreed.
The kettle boiled and Hannah made the tea and served the warm, crisp apple pie. The custard was gone but she had a little cream. They ate in silence. Perhaps from pleasure, but more probably from good manners, Abby finished everything on her plate.
“Thank you,” she said with a smile. “That’s the best I’ve had in a long time. Are they your own apples?”
“Yes. This time of the year they’ve been stored all winter and they’re not much good for anything but cooking,” Hannah replied. She wanted to be more help than memories of the village and remarks about housekeeping, but she had no idea how to reach the pain that was so obvious in Abby’s face and the crumpled bowing of her thin shoulders. What did one say or do to touch the loss of her husband? Perhaps that was the ultimate loneliness; everyone was helpless in the reality of it and frightened because they knew it could happen to them, too, tomorrow or the day after.
Alys would have known what to say that would offer some kind of healing, a moment’s respite from the drowning pain. How did people survive it? They went to sleep with it, and woke up with it. It walked beside them close as their skin for the rest of their lives. What could Hannah offer that was not facile or intrusive where it would be blundering in, making it all worse still? She remembered the name of Abby’s son. “How is Sandy?” she asked.
Abby’s eyes filled with tears. “He’s well,” she answered. “He’s starting to enjoy reading and always has a book with him.”
Hannah seized the subject, realizing that Sandy was about the same age as Luke. “Has he favorites? Tom used to love all sorts of imaginative fiction, but Luke’s a realist.”
Abby hesitated, and then answered slowly at first, trying to think of titles. Then as they shared their observations about boys curled up in bed reading in the middle of the night, it became momentarily easy.
But all the time Hannah had the increasing feeling that there was something Abby wanted to say, and yet dreaded it.
Outside in the spring night, the wind rustled the leaves with a heaviness as if it might soon rain. Inside, the heat from the oven was close on the skin, making the room seem oddly airless.
Finally the tension cracked within Hannah. She leaned forward across the table, reaching her hand toward Abby’s. “What is it?” she asked. “You can talk about Paul, if you want to. Or anything else. You can carry it alone if you want, but you don’t have to.”
Abby’s eyes were swimming with tears. She wiped them fiercely, staring at Hannah through the blur, trying to make the decision.
Hannah did not know whether to speak or not. She waited while the silence settled. A few spatters of rain struck the window and she stood up to pull it closed.
“Someone from Paul’s regiment came to see me about a week ago,” Abby said suddenly. “He was on leave. He . . . just came.”
Hannah heard the agony in her voice and turned around slowly. Abby’s face was twisted in pain. Her body was rigid, shuddering with the effort of trying to control herself and knowing she was failing.
Hannah felt her own stomach clench. What terrible thing had this man told her? Had he described the body of the man she loved blown apart, but perhaps still leaving him conscious to be hideously aware of it? Worse? Cowardice? A memory Abby could scarcely bear to live with? Was that why she looked as if she longed for death herself?
Hannah went over to her, uncertain whether even to attempt to put her arms around the fragile, stiff body, or if it would seem like an unthinking intrusion. She stopped and simply took Abby’s hands instead, kneeling in front of her awkwardly. The floor was hard.
“What did he say?” she asked.
“He told me about Paul,” Abby answered, her eyes desperate. “He told me how much he had liked him. What they did, what they talked about during the long days when they were bored stiff and had lots of time to be frightened, to think of what sort of night it would be, how many would be injured, or killed. He said Paul used to tell jokes, awful ones that went on and on, and sometimes he’d forget the end and have to make it up. Everyone knew he’d lost his place, and they all joined in, getting sillier and sillier.” She gulped. “He said no one else ever made them laugh the way Paul did.”
Hannah felt the fear slip away from her. It was only pain that tore at her. Abby was missing him all over again, the sharpness renewed. It wasn’t any terrible revelation after all.
“It’s good his men liked him,” she said aloud. “He was with friends.”
There was no comfort whatever in Abby’s eyes. “This man—his name was Miles,” she went on. “He told me about one concert party they had, all dressed up like women and singing songs. He wouldn’t tell me the words because he said they were racy, but Paul had a gift for rhymes, and he wrote a lot of them, even though he was an officer. He didn’t take credit for it, but the men knew. All sorts of absurd rhymes, he said.” She tried to smile. “Actually ‘ridiculous’ and ‘meticulous’ was one, and ‘crazy horse,’ ‘pays, of course’ and ‘could be worse,’ only he pronounced it ‘worss.’ It was all incredibly silly, and it made them laugh.” She looked at Hannah wretchedly. “I never heard him do that!”
Hannah was lost for words. She could see that Abby was hurt almost more than she could bear, but not why. Everything this man had said about Paul was good.
“He told me Paul was incredibly brave,” Abby went on. “The men were filthy a lot of the time, mud and rats
