ABIGAIL

Three months earlier

‘Come on, you daft bint, keep up.’ The bicycle wobbled underneath her as she turned to yell at her best friend. Mary was always slower than her, her legs tucked in neatly, back straight, hair tidily pinned, an even circular movement as she pedalled.

Abigail, on the other hand, loved to get some speed up, to feel the bump of the ground beneath her, the wind lifting her hair, twisting it this way and that, loved to hear the high screech of the brakes. Rising out of her seat, she lurched forward as she came to a dramatic stop.

She put her foot down on the ground, peered behind her and saw a man in a pin-striped suit and bowler hat on his way to work, his mouth moving into a thin line of disapproval as she giggled at Mary descending the hill slowly in the neatest line.

Mary came to a stop just behind her, her breathing a little heavier perhaps as she rolled her eyes at Abigail’s expression. ‘Oh do shut up! I won’t be the one to get run over by a motor car.’

‘This is true, not unless it’s being driven by someone very, very blind.’

Mary was holding a loose strand of her hair back, a pin in her mouth, which stopped her poking her tongue out. Abigail laughed, gazing down the hill that swept round and down to Bristol harbour. It was a grey day, the weather stubbornly refusing to shift, the buildings muted. Even the pigeons looked rather fed up and jaded, pecking half-heartedly at something under a bench across the road. Behind them the top of the Wills Memorial Building could just be spotted, rising above Park Street at the centre of the city.

‘Where are we even going?’ Mary called.

Abigail didn’t answer, just pushed herself off, pedalling furiously, laughing at the thought of Mary’s open-mouthed face as she swept down the hill, freewheeling over the concrete, down Jacob’s Wells Road, past a newly built block of apartments on a site that she’d thought would stay rubble for eternity.

Mary took so long to catch up that Abigail had time to prop up her bicycle and lie flat on a bench near the quay. She stretched out, her eyes shut, smiling to herself. A shadow fell across her body and she opened one eye.

‘What are you doing?’ Mary had her hands on her hips.

‘I am lounging,’ Abigail stated, sighing and closing her eyes again. ‘I am rather weary from the ride and I need to rest.’

‘You are impossible. Well budge up then.’

‘Get your own bench.’

Mary was quiet but the shadow hadn’t left. Abigail opened an eye.

‘Yes, I am still here,’ Mary said, her mouth twitching.

‘Fine, but I am old and weary and you should feel terrible for making me mov—’

‘Oh budge up,’ Mary said, swatting Abigail and laughing as she sat on the end of the bench.

Abigail sat up straight and grinned at her.

They stayed like that for a while just looking out over the river, the water lapping gently against the quay. On the other side, men and women moved past in clusters, like shoals of fish shifting together. Builders called to each other from scaffolding and a swan glided past, oblivious to the two girls sitting watching him. The morning sun was still obscured by banks of cloud. Abigail loved Bristol in the morning.

‘I need to get back,’ Mary said, glancing at her wristwatch.

‘Oh no, don’t! How dull. Can’t we stay here all morning and talk about nothing?’

‘Some of us have work to go to.’ Mary folded her arms.

‘I have sandwich making,’ Abigail said with mock horror. ‘That counts as work, it’s deadly.’

‘The way you make them it is.’

Abigail sighed and nodded. ‘How true.’

‘Abigail Lovatt, you are hopeless and why are you making sandwiches anyway?’

‘We’re off to Bath today. Like proper ladies.’ She giggled, pouting at Mary and making her laugh.

‘I’d forgotten,’ Mary said, stretching her arms up and moving her neck from side to side.

‘I can buy you some material there if you like, you’re so good with that sewing machine, it’s thrilling to watch you.’

‘Don’t be silly, you’ve been saving forever.’

‘Yes, but I’ll make you make me something too. I am not completely idiotic.’

Mary laughed. ‘Of course I will,’ she said, a glint of excitement in her eyes. ‘I saw a photograph of Vivien Leigh the other day in the most marvellous skirt and I think I can pull it off.’

‘Oh that would be grand, she has the most fantastic cheekbones.’

‘I’m not sure a skirt will give you them,’ Mary said, shaking her head.

A man had emerged from a side street in front of them, on crutches, his right trouser leg pinned up around his knee. He passed them slowly, nodding an acknowledgement as he went by. They both fell silent, smiling at him with closed lips. He paused by the quay, fiddling with a box of matches as he tried to light a cigarette. The matches fell to the ground.

Abigail jumped up, walked towards him. ‘Let me.’

He was half-bending down to get them but she put a hand on his arm. He raised his eyes to hers, a cigarette drooping from his lips, then shrugged and stood up. She struck the match, cupped it quickly with one hand and held it to the cigarette.

‘Thanks,’ he said, drawing on it.

She handed the box back and stood by his side for a second. The swan was circling back towards them. She sneaked a look at the man’s profile. He wasn’t a great deal older than her, twenty-eight perhaps, maybe younger. His rounded cheeks were flushed pink. He seemed so like all the men before the war except a part of him was missing.

She had grown used to seeing the broken bits, men who had returned shockingly thin, with sunken faces, dark eyes and shaking hands, young men who had white hair at their temples. Abigail’s fists curled at the injustice of it; all these years later, the war leaving its reminders on their bodies.

The reminders were visible on Bristol too: the gaps in a terrace of houses, a pile of bricks waiting to be removed. He was looking across at the scaffolding, at the men working. ‘We’re getting there,’ he said. ‘You won’t know in a few years.’

She didn’t look at his leg, just nodded in agreement, wanting that to be true. Yet she knew they would always carry the war with them; you couldn’t just build a new house over the shell of the old one without seeing it in your mind as you passed.

‘You have a wonderful day, miss,’ he said, grinding his cigarette with the end of his crutch and smiling at her.

‘You too.’

She returned to the bench and watched the man move away. As she sat back down, Mary gave her a small smile.

‘Do you think we’ll ever get used to it?’ Abigail sighed.

‘No, and we shouldn’t,’ Mary said decisively, both hands resting on her thighs.

Abigail scooted along the bench to her friend and dropped her head on her shoulder. ‘You are marvellous, Mary.’

Mary shrugged her off. ‘Don’t start,’ she said gruffly, despite the corner of her mouth lifting. Then without a pause Mary leapt to her feet, ran to her bicycle and wheeled it down the pavement. Swinging herself up, she raced off into the distance, laughing and calling, ‘Got you!’

‘Damn.’