Sweyn’s Eye slumbered beneath an uneasy sky. Clouds obscured the face of the moon and the sleeping hills crouched silent in the gloom.
Mary stood at her window staring out into the darkness, her spirits low, tears trembling on her lashes. Behind her in the large bed she could hear the even sound of her husband’s breathing and wondered in sudden anger how he could sleep at a time like this. It was his last night at home with her, for tomorrow he would rejoin his regiment.
He looked so handsome in his uniform as an officer in the 14th Welch, tall and distinguished, a handsome stranger. The long months he had spent in the Army had altered him and now he was thinner of face, his brow creased in a perpetual frown. And there was an elusive quality about him too, as though his leave was merely a pause in a way of life now become all-important to him.
Tonight they had gone through the motions of making love. She had lain in his arms, held near to his heart, yet she had known – they both had known – that the closeness between them had vanished.
When had the marriage begun to falter? Mary asked herself. She could not blame the arrival of Mary Anne Bloomfield, for the wedge had been there long before that. In her heart she knew the answer: she blamed him for not giving her a child and yet feared that the fault was her own. Impatiently she pushed the thoughts away; she was becoming obsessed – was Brandon’s love not enough for her?
The moon slid from between the clouds, silvering the trees in the garden, turning the small pond into a shimmering jewel. She had so much, Mary thought painfully. She must be grateful, for she had risen above her origins and the terrible grinding poverty of her childhood. She had made a success of her life, owned a big store, married well and for love, so why did she allow discontent to sour everything?
She glanced at the figure in the bed; his broad shoulders were uncovered and his skin was silk in the silver light. She loved him so much, how could she bear for him to go away again?
Wide-eyed, she slid into bed beside him and lay still, staring up at the ceiling. Perhaps she would lose Brandon to this terrible war – the thought was like a blade piercing her soul. Tentatively she reached out and slipped her fingers into his; he stirred a little and she held her breath, not wanting to wake him. Hot bitter tears welled into her eyes, spilling down her cheeks as she turned her face into the pillow.
The early morning light crawled into the bedroom and Mary realised that she must have fallen into an uneasy sleep. At her side, Brandon breathed peacefully and for a moment she felt once more a stinging anger against him. As she rose quickly from between the sheets he opened his eyes, staring up at her; he had the gift of being lost in sleep one minute and the next moment being fully awake. He smiled and gestured for her to come to his side. She obeyed and clung to him, willing herself not to cry. When he smoothed her hair and kissed her closed eyes, his touch though sensuous was a gesture of farewell.
At breakfast, Mary ate little of the crisp bacon with devilled kidneys specially prepared by the cook. She watched Brandon closely and once when his eyes met hers she was shocked to see the eagerness in his face. He wanted to go to the war, to be a soldier again. He saw her watching him and reached out to cover her hand with his own. ‘Try to understand, Mary, this is something I have to do.’
She sat in the conservatory while he changed into his uniform. Determined not to cry, she held her head high; her mouth was dry but she managed a smile.
‘I’ll be home on leave again before you know it,’ he whispered in her ear. The cloth of his uniform was rough against her hands as she kissed him lightly and moved back a pace, wishing he would go and get the parting over with, yet dreading the moment when he would walk through the door.
‘Do you want me to come into town with you?’ she asked and in spite of herself, her voice trembled a little.
He shook his head. ‘No, Mary, I want to think of you in our home, standing here just like you are now, so elegant and beautiful that I ache with pride in you.’
They clung together for a long moment and then he released her. She stood on the step watching as he made his farewells to the staff, who had lined up on the drive like a guard of honour. Her throat was thick with tears and she could barely keep her lips from trembling. She heard the engine of the car spring into life and then Brandon was climbing in beside the driver, tapping Jim on the shoulder to show he was ready.
Mary raised her arm in one last farewell gesture and then moved back into the house, running up the stairs and into the bedroom to fling herself on to the still warm sheets which bore the scent of him. How could she bear the continued loneliness of being without him?
The sound of the car died away into the distance and Mary closed her eyes, knowing that he was gone from her and not all her crying would bring him back. She wished for a moment that she could turn back the clock a few hours to when she had lain in his arms; why had she withheld a small part of herself? And then the tears came, scalding, painful and she felt the same uncertainty she had known as a child lying in a hovel, hunger and unhappiness a way of life. She had shown courage then and so must she do now, she told herself fiercely. She would throw herself into her work, settle down to the life of a woman whose man was at war as so many other women in Sweyn’s Eye had to do. But at least they had children… the errant thought crept into her mind as she buried her head in Brandon’s pillow.
Later when she travelled down into town on the tram, no one would have known from her bland expression that she had spent most of the morning weeping. The town was thronged with people – mostly women, young boys and old men – and Mary realised for the first time just how the war had affected Sweyn’s Eye.
Suddenly she felt uplifted and as she entered the emporium, there was an easing of her pain. She had much to be thankful for, she thought soberly.
She was greeted at the door of her office by Mrs Greenaway, her face sombre, her eyelids drooping as she twisted her hands together in distress.
‘Have you heard about the explosion, Mrs Sutton?’ she asked at once and Mary moved into the warmth of her room, shaking her head.
‘What’s happened, Greenie? I haven’t been in town for days.’
Mary sat at her desk, staring at the pile of unopened letters, strangely unwilling to involve herself in the work of the store.
‘Down at the munitions factory, like a bloodbath it was, so they say. One of the young girls, Janey Jenkins, was ripped to pieces by the blast – couldn’t find enough of her to fill the coffin.’
Mary shook her head, wishing that Greenie would not be so graphic. Her heart sank at this news; although they were only very distantly related, she had lived near the family once, a long time ago when Janey was a baby.
‘She can’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen, poor child,’ she said aloud now, and Mrs Greenaway nodded.
‘Aye… and that Honey O’Connor, beautiful girl, sweet as a spring lamb she was, with lovely golden hair – she’s dead too, but they say there wasn’t a mark on her.’
Mary stared up from her chair, suddenly feeling ill. ‘Those were the girls working with Katie Murphy.’ The words came out hoarsely and Mrs Greenaway looked at her anxiously.
‘Katie’s not hurt – well, not too badly – cut on her head, that’s all. She was a heroine by all accounts, keeping the rest of the gang’s spirits up, carrying on working in spite of the terrible thing that had just happened. Deserves a medal, she does.’
Mary rubbed at her eyes, ‘Duw, there’s awful, two young girls killed and for what? But if anything had happened to Katie, it would break my heart.’
‘I know, friends for years you’ve been,’ Greenie said softly. ‘Katie’s like the sister you never had, I suppose.’
Mary sank back in her chair. ‘Send for some tea, there’s a love.’ She pushed the pile of letters away from her with an impatient gesture. ‘I don’t feel a bit like work today.’
At the door the older woman paused. ‘What about the funeral? I expect you’d want to attend, wouldn’t you?’
Mary nodded. ‘Will you order some flowers, Greenie?’
The day was one of unreality and afterwards Mary didn’t know how she got through it. The thought of returning home to a house empty of Brandon’s presence did nothing to cheer her spirits. By late afternoon she was weary and, glancing at the clock, she put down her pen; it might be a good idea to take her tea at the store, she decided.
Suddenly she realised she had not eaten all day and felt hungry. She closed the silver top of the inkwell and rose from her chair, stretching her arms above her head, trying desperately not to think. She didn’t want to remember that her husband had gone away or that the awful thing called war was impinging on her life, eating away at the heart of it, destroying everything loved and familiar.
The tea rooms were crowded and the hubbub of voices was almost a tangible blow. She moved between the damask-covered tables, nodding in greeting to her regular customers, trying to stretch her face into a smile though her jaw ached with the effort.
‘Mrs Sutton – isn’t it lovely to see you again, honey – won’t you join me?’
Mary stared blankly at the American woman seated with her daughter, presiding smugly over the silver teapot like a fat spider, her plump white fingers covered in rings.
‘I don’t really think…’ Her words trailed away as Mary Anne interrupted her. ‘I’ve said goodbye to Brandon. Isn’t it dreadful that a man like him has to be a soldier? It’s scandalous.’
Mary sat heavily in a tall-backed chair, her legs suddenly weak.
‘You’ve seen Brandon today?’ She could not help asking the question, even though she knew the other woman was glorying in her bewilderment.
‘But of course my dear – you don’t think he could return to the Front without saying farewell to me, do you?’
Mary took the hot strong coffee that Mary Anne handed her and sipped it without noticing the bitter taste.
‘I really didn’t think he was obliged to you in any way,’ Mary said coldly. ‘After all, what happened between you was a lifetime ago.’
Mary Anne glanced meaningfully at her daughter and the girl sank back in her chair, her eyes downcast, her mouth drawn into a sulky pout.
‘Yes, but we have such strong ties holding us together; they can never be broken, don’t you see that?’
‘Mamma!’ The young girl spoke sharply, but her mother’s withering glance silenced her.
Mary leaned forward. ‘Don’t try to tell me that this girl is my husband’s daughter,’ she said, her heart thumping rapidly. ‘I happen to know that you ran away with Dean Sutton, and it takes a real slut to play off two brothers against each other.’
Mary Anne drew on her gloves with agonising slowness, smoothing the lacy material over her plump fingers as though the task was the most important thing in all the world.
‘Insult me all you like, but I’m not telling you anything that you can’t see for yourself, honey.’ She smiled dazzlingly and rose to her feet. ‘What a charming place you have here – you were most fortunate in marrying a man as well heeled as Brandon Sutton, weren’t you?’
Mary shook her head, pushing down her anger at the injustice in the woman’s words. Brandon had been a struggling business man when they had married, while she had wrested a successful living out of selling; but there was little point in telling Mary Anne all that, she wouldn’t listen anyway.
Mary Anne rested her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘One thing I will say, honey, is that Brandon gave me more than he’s ever given you.’ Her meaning was crystal clear and Mary felt the hot colour rise to her cheeks. Her instinct was to order the woman to leave and never come into the emporium again, but that would be admitting defeat.
She forced herself to smile pleasantly, holding her head high. ‘And how many men have you told the same fairy tale to, Miss Bloomfield?’ She saw the anger fleeting across Mary Anne’s face with a fierce dart of satisfaction and then turned away, walking swiftly towards the door; she felt in need of fresh air.
There was a pain growing inside her as the knowledge of Brandon’s duplicity rose uppermost in her mind. She did not give credence to Mary Anne’s claim that he was the father of her child because she did not want to believe it. She preferred to believe that Virginia’s ‘Sutton look’ came from Brandon’s brother Dean. Yet the fact that Brandon had gone straight from her arms to Mary Anne in order to say goodbye hurt her deeply. Was there anything still between them, she wondered anxiously? There was only one person who might be able to tell her and that was Dean Sutton himself, for he had run away with Mary Anne all those years ago back in America, stolen his brother’s fiancée – surely he would know the truth about Mary Anne and her daughter… if he could be persuaded to divulge it.
The driver was waiting outside the store with the automobile and Mary’s heart missed a beat as it occurred to her that Jim would know where Brandon had gone that morning. The man held open the door for her, his weathered face wreathed in a smile of welcome.
‘Finished work early today, Mrs Sutton? Good thing too, you’re doing more than enough what with the store and your stint on the trams.’ He climbed into the driving seat. ‘We’re all right proud of you and of the Master too – I hope you don’t take offence at me being so familiar like.’
Mary sighed and settled back in the cold leather of the seat. ‘I’m not doing anything different from any other woman, we all have to do our best in times like these.’
Jim was silent as he negotiated the car through the crowds in the Stryd Fawr, heading away from the busy roadways towards the western slope.
‘Did you go with Mr Sutton to the station, Jim?’ Mary hated herself, yet the question was whirling round in her brain begging to be asked.
Jim tipped his cap back on his head. ‘No, Mr Sutton had business to do in town so I just dropped him off. There’s smart and distinguished he looked in his uniform –be going to the Front with him I’d be too, if I was a younger man.’
Mary Anne Bloomfield had been telling the truth then… Brandon had gone to see her before leaving Sweyn’s Eye. The thought was like a pain inside her.
Shortly afterwards, the matter of Brandon visiting Mary Anne was thrust from Mary’s mind with startling abruptness when she received the ominous communication. She stared down at the official envelope, her heart freezing in fear, then gazed around the familiar dining room, giving herself a few moments’ respite. At last her fingers tore at the envelope and she forced herself to read the words that leaped out at her. Fragments of them burned her eyes:
REGRETS… HUSBAND… MISSING BELIEVED KILLED…
With a moan of pain Mary slumped over the table, but though despair rose in waves to engulf her she could not find relief in tears.
She had little recollection of the next few days and it was a misty, dismal evening when she realised that her life must continue as normally as possible. When she called for Jim to take her out he nodded with his eyes full of sympathy.
‘All right, Mrs Sutton, I’m ready – you’ve only to say the word.’
The silence seemed to stretch on endlessly and it was as though a huge question mark hung in the air. Mary rushed into speech, not wanting Jim to say anything that might hurt her.
‘I must go to Market Street, see Katie Murphy. You must have heard about the explosion in the munitions factory, Jim?’ She spoke conversationally as though her heart wasn’t breaking, and Jim acted as though nothing untoward had happened in the Sutton household.
‘Aye, it’s all over town. Terrible thing when innocent young girls get blasted into eternity. Didn’t have a prayer, for once those gaines explode there’s no time to run and hide.’ His voice was bitter. ‘Place for youngsters is at home preparing for motherhood, not filling shells with TNT. God damn those Huns… if you’ll excuse the language, Mrs Sutton.’
Mary settled into an unquiet silence, her mind twisting and turning as though a black cloud had settled above her. She must shake herself out of it, she thought painfully.
It would be a good idea to talk to Katie. She would take her some honey and a basket of vegetables from the garden, for at the Sutton household there was no shortage of food. Mary felt she owed Katie and her family a great debt for she had been given shelter beneath their roof, sharing a room with Katie at a time when she needed help most – that was a kindness she would never forget.
Later, as Jim drove her through the silent streets, she found herself thinking of the nursery wing waiting vainly to be used. The rooms were painted cream and blue, with frothy lace drapes on the empty crib. It was a room that was meant to house the future Suttons, but now that must remain only a dream.
Mary sighed and brushed back her hair; it was tied with a dark green bow, for she had been too weary to have it combed and primped into the wide brushed-back style that fashionable ladies were given to wearing.
She drew her coat more closely around her, feeling cold in the mist of the evening.
Outwardly she had changed very little since her marriage, at least in appearance. Her face was still smooth and unlined, her hair held no trace of grey although she was past her thirtieth year. She bit her lip in anguish – now she would never bear the child she so longed for. ‘Stop it!’ she said harshly. Crying over might-have-beens was of no use at all – where was the courage that had brought her from life in a hovel to the successful businesswoman she now was?
Market Street was soft under the gas lighting. The contours of the buildings blurred the windows, gleaming like friendly eyes. Katie Murphy’s face lit up when she saw Mary and she drew her into the snug kitchen, hugging her arm in friendship.
‘You look pale,’ Katie said, studying her anxiously, ‘and there’s such a look in your eyes – what’s wrong, tell me?’
‘I’m all right.’ Mary couldn’t speak of the pain inside her, not just yet. ‘I’ve come to see how you are, cariad, I see there’s a nasty gash on your forehead from the explosion.’
The welcoming light faded from Katie’s eyes. ‘Sure, but ’tis little enough hurt compared with the loss of two of my girls.’
Mary clasped her hands tightly, ‘I know.’ She spoke softly and after a moment Katie nodded her head.
‘You’d understand more than most. Come and sit down, me dad’s taken Mam to visit the O’Connors, to sympathise with them in their grief at losing a daughter.’ There was a glint of tears in Katie’s eyes and Mary sighed, the bitterness of her own loss heavy within her.
‘This war’s got a lot to answer for.’ Mary knew that she was referring to her own life and now she felt almost compelled to speak. ‘It’s Brandon,’ she rushed out the words. ‘I’ve been informed that he’s missing…’ she couldn’t bring herself to utter the words, ‘believed killed’.
‘Oh Mary.’ Katie hugged her warmly. ‘I’m so sorry! What is happening to our little world? Everything’s changing, so ’tis, and we powerless to do anything about it.’
They talked softly together, Mary spilling out her sense of hurt and loss and Katie listening with patience and sympathy.
‘If only I had his child,’ Mary’s voice was full of anguish, ‘at least then I’d have part of him.’
‘There, there, ’tis all in the hands of fate,’ Katie said in her gentle way.
Mary rose to her feet, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. ‘I’ve got to get on, Katie,’ she made an effort to control the trembling of her hands as she drew on her coat, ‘but if you ever want to get away from the munitions factory there’s always your old job in my store, you know that.’
Mary left the house in Market Street and stood staring around her, breathing in the familiar smell of the place. So much had changed and yet so little, she thought bitterly.
‘Go on home, Jim,’ she said softly to the driver. ‘I need to walk a little.’
Reluctantly he drove away, while Mary stood still in the gloom until the sound of the engine could no longer be heard. Then she made her way slowly along the shining surface of the roadway where pools of light washed down from the lamps, the glow seemingly diluted by the mist. She paused in Canal Street to stare at the derelict laundry that had once been the hub of the area.
It was here she had worked as a young girl, rising to overseer, her endeavours much appreciated by old Mr Waddington… God rest his soul.
She thought with renewed bitterness of the way Brandon’s father had bought up the laundry and how – hating Mary – he had driven her away from the job she had delighted in. And then as though in poetic justice, one of the long-neglected boilers had blown up, causing such devastation that the laundry had not functioned since.
A cab drew up beside Mary and a tall figure alighted directly in her path, knocking her sideways. She fell against the wall, feeling the harsh stone graze her cheek, then she was caught up in strong arms. She became aware of dark eyes staring at her and it was a moment or two before she recognised Dr Soames.
‘I’m so sorry.’ His voice was harsh with remorse. ‘I hope you’re all right?’ He placed a steadying arm around her and suddenly Mary found herself dissolving into tears.
‘Hello, what’s this then, you are hurt? Look, come inside, let me see to you properly.’
He led her unprotesting into his room, where a fire roared and sucked behind black-leaded bars. Mary sank down on the couch, grateful for the heat that went some way to dispelling the cold within her.
He looked concerned as he rolled his shirtsleeves above his elbows and then he was beside her. ‘Let me help you off with your coat and then I can check to see if there are any bruises.’
She tried to tell him she was all right, but the words would not come. His expression was one of concern as he felt her limbs carefully.
‘Nothing broken, thank God! You can call me a clumsy ox if it helps.’
‘I’m all right, there’s nothing to worry about.’ She looked up at him as he knelt by her side and their eyes met and held. The admiration in his gaze was like a balm and she leaned forward almost unthinkingly. His mouth was gentle upon hers and then passion seemed to grow within him as he held her close.
Shakily he would have moved away but she held his shoulders, her grip almost fierce.
‘I’d better take you home,’ he said carefully but she shook her head.
‘No, please, I don’t want to go home.’
He drew her into his arms once more and then he was lying alongside her on the couch, cradling her.
The flames from the fire leaped upwards along the walls and ceiling and somehow just being in the small, familiar room was reassuring. That she was in another man’s arms did not seem wrong… Brandon was beyond solace, but she was not.
She did not even know Dr Soames’ first name, but she clung to him with a feeling of relief. Even when his breathing became heavy and his embrace more passionate, still she did not draw away. He was human contact, another being who would help her through the loneliness of the long night, and she felt nothing but gratitude towards him. She closed her eyes and clung to his broad shoulders and was comforted.