Joan woke from dreaming, alone in the grey light of pre-dawn now that Tilly had moved in with Caroline next door. Suffocating and shaken, she threw back the covers, gasping for air.
In her nightmare, she’d been pushed up against a wall while a man in uniform pawed at her and slobbered wet kisses over her face.
But it was less of a nightmare and more of a memory. In the early years of the war, she’d been working in a factory, far from friends and family, and excited by the promise of alcohol and dancing at a Christmas party after months of dreary, repetitive work.
She’d been dancing with her friends when soldiers on leave had rolled in off the street. They’d clearly been drinking but seemed merry enough with it. So she’d danced with a few of them, enjoying herself for the first time in ages. She’d been drinking too and the next thing she knew, one of the soldier boys had pulled her away from her friends and was kissing her in a corner. Not just kissing either. His hands had been all over her.
She’d pushed at the man’s chest, crying out for help. Thankfully, another soldier had pulled the drunken man away, sending him sprawling. Otherwise, goodness knows what might’ve happened, under cover of all that maddening noise and music.
Joan sank back against the pillows, tormented.
What had Violet said about Arthur Green? Not quite right. And she knew what that meant. That Arthur had come back from war shell-shocked, suffering mental distress. Of course, it was almost commonplace these days for soldiers to come home in a state of anguish. But Violet had made his condition sound like more than that.
On impulse, scrambling out of bed, Joan rummaged for paper and filled a pen with fresh ink.
Dear Arthur, she wrote hastily, and then stopped, sucking the end of her pen.
How to ask a man if he had been badly affected by the war without risking offence? The last thing she wanted was to upset him.
I can’t see you this week, she began carefully, heart thumping, but knew before she’d even finished those words that she couldn’t obey Violet’s injunction never to see him again. The mere thought distressed her. Besides, why should she? She was a member of the Women’s Land Army, not Violet and Joe’s employee. The couple had no right to tell her who she could or couldn’t meet outside work times. And Arthur should be allowed a chance to prove himself.
But maybe next Thursday instead?
Her heart lightening, she went on to remind him how best to organise the books in the library, and suggested a time they could meet.
Yes, it was a revolt against Violet’s strict rules, and she did feel guilty about it, but what the eye doesn’t see, the heart can’t grieve over, as Mrs Newton might have said. What harm could it do to see Arthur Green again, after all? Just the thought of his smile soon had her lips curling upwards, that horrid nightmare forgotten …
All week, she toiled harder than ever at the farm, trudging up and down the deep soil rills with the other girls, scattering seed and pulling out any weeds she spotted. Usually, she found this repetitive work boring, but now she barely noticed time flying past, her mind engaged in thinking up ways to broach the delicate topic of Arthur’s time in the war …
On Thursday afternoon, the three girls walked down the steep hill to the Penzance bus together, as planned. But, as soon as the bus trundled into view, she gave the other two a cheery wave and skipped off.
‘Not a word to Violet, all right?’ She couldn’t believe what she was saying. It wasn’t like her to misbehave. But it had to be done if she wanted to keep seeing Arthur.
‘Mum’s the word, cross my heart and hope to die,’ Tilly shouted after her, crossing herself fervently. ‘Have fun with Arthur!’
Caroline simply giggled, the two girls clutching each other with undisguised amusement as they boarded the bus to Penzance, heading for the shops.
It was a long walk, and a hot afternoon, but Joan couldn’t have borrowed the bicycle again as that would have alerted Violet to her intentions. Cautiously, she also skirted the village shop, in case Mrs Newton happened to be looking out of the window. Once free of this danger, she strode on past the green, heading for the distant church and the lane beyond it.
When she reached the big house, Arthur was sitting on the front step, waiting for her, dressed in his usual baggy trousers with a white shirt and brown tie, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He jumped up with a grin, his tie flapping, saying, ‘Hullo, I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it again.’
‘I’m sorry I’m late. Did you get my note last week?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ He smoothed back the fair hair that had flopped over his forehead. ‘It was a pity you couldn’t come. But I muddled through and managed to follow your scheme. Still plenty more to do up there, if you’re game.’
‘It’s such a lovely afternoon though,’ she said shyly, glancing about at the beautiful gardens that lay in full sunshine. ‘Maybe we could go for a quick walk before we start work?’
His brows rose but he readily agreed. ‘There’s a nice rhododendron walk this way,’ he said, leading her round the back of the house, where lichened stone steps led down to a path shaded with towering rhododendrons, their deep-pink, red and white flowers hanging about them like coloured lanterns. It was cool and intimate down there, out of the sun, the sky barely visible above thick foliage, like walking through a secret passageway …
‘Oh, this is lovely,’ she exclaimed.
‘Isn’t it?’ Arthur seemed pleased, ducking his head and brushing aside a low-hanging branch for her. ‘I often come down here when the house gets too stuffy. I love all those old books, but sometimes you just need to clear your head, don’t you?’
This gave her an opening she couldn’t ignore. ‘Yes,’ she said softly, and stopped, looking up into his face. His smile was so open and friendly that guilt assailed her. But with Violet’s words still ringing in her ears, she pressed on, warmth in her cheeks as she stammered, ‘That is, I think I understand what you mean. I’ve felt like that in the past. When things get too much for you,’ her gaze searched his face, ‘and when other people don’t know what you’ve been through, that makes everything so much worse.’
His smile had faded, his brows tugging together. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Especially if people talk.’
There was a moment’s stillness, then Arthur turned away and walked on a few faltering steps. ‘Yes, I see,’ he said in a choking voice.
She didn’t follow, her heart thumping. Had she said too much? He was clearly upset. The one thing she’d been hoping to avoid.
His hands had clenched into fists by his sides, his bearing stiff. Trepidation filled her.
‘I’m so sorry if I’ve said something to upset you,’ she whispered, abruptly remembering Violet’s warnings and wondering if she should return to the house.
They were all alone out here … Was it possible that he was dangerous?
His head had been bowed, but Arthur straightened at this, turning with what seemed a pitiful effort at a smile. ‘No, no,’ he insisted in bracing tones, and relaxed his hands, thrusting them into his pockets instead. ‘Good Lord, no … You could never upset me.’ His voice cracked, but he cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. ‘Please, just ignore me.’
They strolled on along the rhododendron walk together, but at a slower pace. He was solemn now, his gaze bent on the ground.
She couldn’t stand it. ‘Arthur, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, nothing.’
‘Oh, please don’t lie. Not to me.’ Urgently, she caught at his shirt sleeve and they stopped again. ‘I thought we were friends.’
‘We are,’ he told her doggedly.
‘Then be honest with me. Even if it’s not easy.’ She bit her lip, seeing a flash of agony in his face. ‘I’m sorry. But the thing is, Violet said something … The farmer’s wife, up at Postbridge Farm. She said …’ Joan had meant to be straight with him, hoping for the same courtesy in return, only she couldn’t go on, seeing his fierce expression.
‘Yes, what did she say?’ he demanded.
Joan hesitated, more cautious now, not wanting to betray Violet’s trust. ‘I’m not sure if I should—’
‘Please.’ He swallowed and closed his eyes, a spasm passing over his face as he repeated more softly, ‘Please, Joan.’
If he had spoken harshly, she would have turned and run, and probably never agreed to see him again. But there was such a terrible despair in that one repeated word that it left her defenceless.
‘Violet said you’d come back from the war a changed man. That you … That you weren’t quite right.’
Arthur sank his face into his hands and groaned, bending over.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
He stayed bent over for a good minute, causing her concern for his well-being, then finally straightened, shaking his head. He took a few deep breaths before managing a crooked smile. ‘Don’t be, please. It’s not your fault. It’s mine, in fact. That damn war …’ He stopped himself with a visible effort and looked away, hands thrust in his pockets again. ‘Look, I’ll walk you home, if you’d like. You don’t need to come inside. I’ll quite understand.’
‘Go home?’ Shock gripped her as she realised what he meant, what he was thinking. ‘I don’t want to go home.’
‘But—’
‘I’m not scared of you,’ she burst out, and saw his tortured stare return to her face in wonder. ‘That wasn’t why I asked. Oh, hang it all. I only asked about your past because I wanted you to know that I understand.’
‘You do?’ He sounded puzzled now.
‘It’s not the same, I know. Could never be the same.’ She struggled through her confused thoughts, groping for the truth of the matter. ‘I’ve never been to war, for a start, so it’s not in any way equal. But things have happened to me that …’ She ground to a halt, breathless, unable to go on.
For a few brutal seconds, she was back in that dark noisy room, the burly soldier’s hands pawing at her. She could almost smell his breath, taste the cigarette smoke on his lips, feel the crushing weight of his body as she fought in vain to push his bulk away …
‘I suffer from nightmares,’ she choked out, her chest tight. Their gazes locked together in a welter of understanding. ‘The same nightmares every time. When I wake up, my heart’s beating so fast … and it hangs over me all day. I don’t find it easy to talk to people. Everyone assumes it’s because I’m shy but that’s not true. I can’t help it but—’ She couldn’t go on.
‘But you’re trapped in it. No escape.’
‘Yes,’ she breathed.
‘Oh, Joan …’ His voice had deepened in sympathy. Gently, he placed a hand on her shoulder, the same way he’d soothed the nervous lamb in his satchel with a touch. She felt a blooming of new strength inside, even though he’d barely touched her. ‘What happened? Are you able to tell me?’ His astute gaze searched her face. ‘What did he do to you?’
The simple knowledge that he understood her pain without needing it explained was enough to release a weight from her mind that had been crushing her for years. She wasn’t strong enough to push any further into that nightmare memory though.
‘I want to tell you, honestly.’ Tears sprang to her eyes as she shook her head, stammering, ‘But I can’t.’
‘Of course not.’ Arthur stepped back, his hands in his pockets again. His gaze rested on her face, soft and undemanding. ‘Well, let’s go inside, shall we? I’ll rustle up a pot of tea and a slice of Mrs Penhallow’s cake, and we’ll go back to cataloguing those musty old books. No more said about this.’ His smile was encouraging. ‘How’s that?’
She returned his smile, feeling better at once. It was as though helping her with that past pain had eased his own. And she felt the same.
‘Golly, sounds fun,’ she managed to say, with a jerky nod of her head.
He turned on his heel, looking about speculatively, then plucked a deep pink rhododendron bloom from the thick rustling foliage and tucked it behind her ear.
‘There,’ he murmured, smoothing back her hair. ‘Now you could be Persephone herself.’
She blushed, shivering at the touch of his fingers against her cheek. ‘The goddess of spring?’
‘Exactly.’ He grinned. ‘Though I’m no Pluto. Only tea and cake on offer here, no pomegranate seeds, I promise.’
Joan gave a gurgling laugh, not sure where to look.
They walked back up to the house together, shoulder to shoulder under the low-hanging rhododendrons, hands close but not quite touching. The world was sparkling after last night’s rain, the back windows of the grange dazzling her with reflected sunlight. She could smell salt and even hear the soft, distant whisper of waves on the white sands at Porthcurno beach, the air was so still.
She wished that she could have been more open with him. She had never told anyone else about the horrible events of that night, too wracked with shame even to admit what had happened. Also, women were often blamed for things men did to them, even when they’d done nothing wrong or had merely been too trusting. And yet with Arthur, mentioning that deep-buried episode had felt so natural. Perhaps she ought to have explained everything. But he hadn’t seemed to need the details, understanding instinctively. What did he do to you? Nor had he pointed out the difference between the horrors he must have experienced on the battlefield and her own barely comparable upset.
She had found a friend at last, she thought in wonder, aware of an inner lightening of her burdens. No, not merely a friend, Joan corrected herself, drawing the fresh Cornish air deep into her lungs. A kindred spirit.