The Soldier’s Wife

Millie is clinging to Blanche’s hand. I can tell she’s been crying: the tracks of tears gleam on her cheeks.

‘I’m all right. I’m not hurt,’ I say.

I reach out to hug Millie. She pulls away, stares at my dress. All the colour has gone from her face.

‘Mum. You’ve got blood all over you,’ says Blanche, in that small thin voice.

I look down. I hadn’t realised. There’s a lot of blood on the front of my dress, where I cradled Frank as he died.

‘It isn’t my blood,’ I tell them. ‘I’m all right. Really.’

They don’t say anything—just stand there, staring at me.

‘Look—I’m going to have to leave you for a little longer,’ I say. ‘I have to go to Angie’s.’

I can see that Blanche understands at once. Her face darkens.

‘To Angie’s? Did they get Frank?’ she says.

I nod.

Her eyes are round, appalled.

‘But, Mum—what on earth will Angie do without him?’ she says.

‘I don’t know,’ I tell her.

I can’t go to see Angie with her husband’s blood on my clothes. I change, and put my dress to soak in a bath of cold water, swirling the water around to try to loosen the stain. I almost faint as I straighten up, the bathroom spinning around me. My body feels flimsy as eggshell, as though the slightest touch might shatter me. I can’t break the news to Angie feeling like this.

I make myself drink some sugary tea, just as the fireman advised. Something has gone wrong with my throat, and it’s hard to swallow the drink, but afterwards I feel a little stronger. The girls sit at the table with me, watching over me anxiously.

‘Now, will you two be all right?’ I say. ‘I promise I won’t be long.’

‘We’ll be fine, Mum,’ says Blanche.

‘No, we won’t. I won’t let you go,’ says Millie.

She comes to stand by my chair, wraps herself around me. I have to peel her fingers like bandages from my arms.

Reluctantly, full of dread, I walk up the lane to Les Ruettes. My feet are heavy, as though I am wading through deep water. I knock at Angie’s door, and my dread is a bitter taste in my mouth. I would rather be anywhere else but here.

She opens the door.

‘Angie.’ My throat is thick. ‘Something’s happened …’

She stares at my face. She knows at once.

‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. I’m so sorry.’

She sinks down. She’s trying to hold 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.

‘I 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 one another, 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.

‘Did 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. Fucking bastards.

‘He couldn’t speak,’ I say.

I take her hand in mine. Her skin is icy cold; the cold in her goes through me.

‘He died very quickly, he wouldn’t have suffered,’ I say.

She moves her head very slightly. I can tell she doesn’t believe me.

‘Come back with me, I’ll give you a meal,’ I tell her.

‘No, Vivienne,’ she says. ‘It’s so kind of you, but I won’t …’

‘I think you should,’ I tell her. ‘You can’t stay here all alone.’

‘I’ll be all right,’ she says. ‘I just need some time on my own, to take it in.’

‘I don’t like to leave you,’ I say.

‘Really, 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.

‘Look,’ 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.

‘Is it so we won’t get killed? When the Germans come and bomb us?’

I don’t know what to tell her.

‘It’s just to be on the safe side,’ I say vaguely.