The Soldier's Wife by Margaret Leroy Read Free Book Online Page B

She knows at once.
    â€œHe’s dead, isn’t he?”
    â€œYes. I’m so sorry.”
    She sinks down. She’s trying to hold on to the door post, but her hands slide down, her body collapses in on itself, as though she has no bones. I can’t hold her. I bring a chair and pull her up onto it. I kneel beside her.
    â€œI was in town today. Frank was there with his lorry. They bombed the pier and I found him. Angie—I was with him, I was holding him when he died.”
    She wraps her hands around each other, wrings them. Her mouth is working, but she can’t speak. There are no tears in her eyes, but her face looks all wrong, damaged.
    At last she tries to clear her throat.
    â€œDid he . . . say anything?” Her voice is hoarse, and muffled as though there’s a blanket over her mouth. “Did he have a message for me, Vivienne?”
    I don’t know what to tell her. I think of his last words.
    â€œHe couldn’t speak,” I say.
    I take her hand in mine. Her skin is icy cold; the cold in her goes through me.
    â€œHe died very quickly, he wouldn’t have suffered,” I say.
    She moves her head very slightly. I can tell she doesn’t believe me.
    â€œCome back with me, I’ll give you a meal,” I tell her.
    â€œNo, Vivienne,” she says. “It’s so kind of you, but I won’t . . .”
    â€œI think you should,” I tell her. “You can’t stay here all alone.”
    â€œI’ll be all right,” she says. “I just need some time on my own, to take it in.”
    â€œI don’t like to leave you,” I say.
    â€œReally, Vivienne. Don’t you worry. In a bit I’ll take myself over to Mabel and Jack’s.”
    Mabel and Jack Bisson have four children; their house will be busy and boisterous. But Angie is insistent.
    I leave her sitting alone by her hearth, wringing her hands as though she is wringing out cloth.
    I COOK TEA for Evelyn and the girls, though I can’t eat anything. Then Blanche helps me bring the girls’ mattresses down from their rooms, and I make up beds for both of them in the narrow space under the stairs. This is the strongest part of the house, its spine.
    â€œLook,” I tell Millie, trying to keep my voice casual. “Tonight you and Blanche will be camping under the stairs. I’ve made you a den to sleep in.”
    She frowns.
    â€œIs it so we won’t get killed? When the Germans come and bomb us?”
    I don’t know what to tell her.
    â€œIt’s just to be on the safe side,” I say vaguely.
    I leave Evelyn in her room—I know I couldn’t persuade her to sleep in a different place. And I think I too will stay upstairs: I can’t believe I’ll sleep at all, and even if I do doze off, if anything happens I’ll wake.
    I sit at the kitchen table, light a cigarette. I remember that there’s some cooking brandy in the kitchen cupboard; it’s left over from Christmas, when I put some in my mince pies. I don’t drink alcohol often, but I pour myself a glass. The brandy has a festive smell, which feels troublingly wrong for the day, but I feel a little calmer as the drink slides into my veins, all my sadness blurring over.
    I sit there for a long time, smoking, drinking, my body loosening, trying not to think. At last I get up to go to bed. As I take the glass to the sink to wash, it simply slips from my hand, falls to the floor, shatters. The dangerous sound of breaking glass triggers something in me: suddenly I am weeping. I sob and sob, as I kneel on the floor and sweep up the glittery shards. I feel as though I will never stop weeping.
    I check on the girls and then I go up to my room. I lie awake for a long time. Nothing happens. There are no planes; all I hear is the creaking of my house as it settles and turns in its sleep, and outside the deepening quiet of the Guernsey summer night, depth on depth of quiet. But my