… I will pray for the safe return of your boys.
Your dearest friend, Lizzie
I gave Lizzie the pages I’d scribed. She folded them carefully and put them in an envelope, then she took her fourth biscuit.
‘Tommy will be ever so lonely without his brothers,’ she said.
‘Do you think he’ll sign up?’
‘If he does, it’ll break Natasha’s heart.’
‘Lizzie, do you ever wish you could tell Natasha your deepest secrets without having to write them through me?’ I asked.
‘I got no deep secrets, Essymay.’
‘If you did, would you want her to know, even though it might change what she thought of you?’
Lizzie’s hand went to her crucifix, and she looked down at the table. She had always given God the credit for any wisdom she gave me. I had long ceased to believe he had anything to do with it.
She lifted her head. ‘I reckon I might want her to know, if it was something that mattered to me, or something that explained me somehow.’
Her answer made my stomach churn. ‘Would it matter, though, if you kept your secret?’
Lizzie got up to put more hot water in the teapot.
‘I don’t think he’ll judge you,’ she said.
I whipped around, but her back was to me. I had no way of reading her face. She might have been talking about God, or she might have been talking about Gareth. I hoped she was talking about both.
A clear night ushered in a blue-sky day and a glittering frost. But the cold morning didn’t last, and my coat felt heavy as I peddled towards the Press with Dr Murray’s proof corrections.
Mr Hart’s office door was half-open. I knocked but there was no reply. I peeked around and saw that he was at his desk, his head in his hands. Another mother, I thought. There had been a small article in the Oxford Times about the number of men from the Press who had signed up, the number who had died. The loss of so many staff would delay the publication of some significant books, it said. Including Shakespeare’s England.
I did not believe it was Shakespeare’s England bowing the Controller’s head, and suddenly the article seemed callous. To name a book but not a single man. I stepped back from the doorway and knocked louder. Mr Hart looked up this time, a little dazed, a little frightened. I handed him the corrected proofs.
Next, I went to find Gareth, but he wasn’t in his office. I found him in the composing room, leaning over his old bench.
‘Can’t stay away from it?’ I said.
Gareth looked up from the type. His smile unconvincing. ‘Too many empty benches,’ he said. ‘The printing room is the same. Only the bindery is at full strength now, though a few of the women have signed on to the Voluntary Aid Detachment.’ He wiped his hands on his apron.
‘Perhaps Mr Hart should think about employing women as printers and compositors.’
‘It’s been raised, but it’s not a popular idea. Inevitable, though, I think.’
‘Mr Hart looks awful.’
Gareth took off his apron and we walked together to where other identical aprons hung on individual hooks. ‘I think he’s falling into one of his depressions,’ he said. ‘It’s understandable. This place is like a village; everyone is related to someone, and each death ripples through it.’
When we crossed the quad, it struck me for the first time just how quiet it really was. Instead of walking towards Jericho, I directed Gareth down Great Clarendon Street. ‘It’s not too cold,’ I said. ‘I thought we could walk along the Castle Mill Stream. I’ve brought sandwiches.’
I could think of nothing ordinary to say as we walked, though Gareth seemed not to notice. We turned into Canal Street and passed St Barnabas Church. It was only as we were on the towpath that he asked if everything was alright. I tried to smile, but was completely unsuccessful.
‘You’re making me nervous,’ he said.
I chose a quiet spot dappled with weak sunshine. Gareth took off his coat and spread it on the ground, and I placed mine beside his. We sat, too close for the acrimony I thought would come. I took the sandwiches out of my satchel and passed him one.
‘Say it,’ he said.
‘Say what?’
‘Whatever is on your mind.’
I searched his face. I didn’t want anything to change the way he looked at me, but I also wanted him to understand me completely. My mind swirled with images and emotion, and I could not recall a single word of what I had rehearsed. I felt breathless. Got to my feet. Walked beside the stream, gulping air, but still I couldn’t breathe. Gareth called after me, but the rushing in my ears made him sound far away.
I would tell him about Her, I knew that. Though I might not be forgiven. I felt sick, but I turned back.
We sat opposite each other. Each on our own coat, Gareth looking down now, stunned and silent. I’d told him everything. I’d said words I’d been afraid of – virgin, pregnant, confinement, birth, baby, adopted – and I was calmer. The nausea had gone.
I watched Gareth, detached. I might have lost him, but the loss of Her was certain. He might have been disappointed in me, but I was disappointed in myself.
I rose and started walking away. When I looked back he was still sitting where I’d left him, his hand was stroking the coat I’d left behind.
Along Canal Street, I found the doors to St Barnabas were open. I sat in the Morning Chapel. I don’t know how long I’d been there before Gareth found me and put my coat over my shoulders. He sat beside me. When he took my arm sometime later, I let him lead me back out into the winter sunshine.
When we arrived back at the Press, I collected my bicycle and insisted I could ride back to the Scriptorium alone.
Gareth looked at me – no acrimony, but there was a sadness.
‘It doesn’t change anything,’ he said.
‘How
