“Why do you care so much?”
Audrey was halfway up the hill, her head full of the words she’d put together on sheets of paper now tucked away in her leather satchel, when she stopped, wondering if she’d secured the latch on the caravan. The wild wind whipped the hair that had escaped her hat as she walked along the path.
She conjured a mental picture of herself back at the caravan, stuffing her papers into her bag, peering into her handbag for her ticket, wallet, handkerchief, closing the overnight bag, checking that the gas burner had been turned off, adjusting her hat, making a note to fix the loose button on her coat.
But securing the latch, in fact, even stepping out of the caravan, was a complete blank. It was as though she’d fallen into a trance, from the moment of putting on her coat up to this point halfway up the hill. The practicalities of it were not an issue. She could ask Michael to check on the caravan after he dropped her off at the station. But the implications, those are what bothered her. What did it mean for her mind to slip into a cave like that?
She’d been distracted. It was something Miriam had said to her, that overtook all other thoughts.
Why do you care so much? It was the campaign they’d been talking about, both in agreement about the principles, but Audrey’s passion more pronounced than Miriam’s. It was the way she’d said it, as though Audrey didn’t have a right, as if she’d overstepped somehow. She knew this was not Miriam’s intention, aware that her friend knew one way to ask a question and that was straight out.
But the question had rattled her, made her consider why she continued to go out on lectures, why she pushed the issue of reproductive rights when she could do so less forcibly, with less fervour. This “caring” as Miriam suggested, could this be read as an assertiveness that undermined her purpose?
That day when Miriam came to her, what had she said exactly?
It was a few days after the Alton rally. The train ride had made her ill, Miriam had said. Some lunch would set her straight, but there was something off, the pallor a stark contrast to Miriam’s normal complexion, frequently ruddy from flying. Lunch had been a temporary solution. But sherry was needed three days later when Miriam appeared at her door, the gift of damson jam she’d made held out to Audrey.
How they circled around it, the reason for her visit. Words eventually found their way. Glasses poured, windows open, and Miriam painfully battling the urge to reveal why she was there, against the need for secrecy. The abortionist was mentioned early in the conversation. The day they went out to see him, the mess of his garden and the unseen mess of his mind. When they were travelling home Miriam had wondered aloud if this might be a form of punishment, this illness he now had after all the babies he’d gotten rid of over the years. Audrey had told her she had no time for punitive faiths, but Miriam said it was more complicated, the way the world worked, far too complex for religion to take the credit.
This thought lingered long after Audrey had returned to the caravan, this complicated world of which Miriam seemed to have some knowledge.
Was it Miriam who had brought up the abortionist’s wife that day? No, it was Audrey who had considered it. Edith had performed the procedure before, Audrey said aloud. Could she do it again? Would she?
This conversation replayed over and again as she continued up the hill, to a waiting Michael who drove her to the station.
The train was late, and Audrey paced the platform, still working through the details of that day, seeking a clarity that was just out of reach. It was obvious to her at the time that Miriam was asking for help, and Audrey moved in quickly as confidante. Yes, an assumption had been made, she admitted now. It was something that Frank had scolded her for in the past—her quick assumptions. But it did seem that Miriam was seeking something from her, something Audrey was actually able to give. When it came to the rights of women, Audrey held the belief that once explained, the tenets would be accepted.
This was Stella Browne’s influence. “The right to refuse maternity is an inalienable right. A woman’s will is her own,” she had told Frank, quoting Stella. “Any reasonable person would see the truth in this.”
“Reasonable person,” Frank had taunted her, “that’s where it all falls apart, the desire to deal only with reasonable people.”
But it was fear, not reason, that ruled Miriam that day in the caravan. A second glass of sherry brought colour to her cheeks, brought a hand to her abdomen, and had her eyes darting all around like a butterfly seeking a place to land. And Audrey talked about rights, a woman’s need for control over her body, as if she were lecturing a roomful at the village hall, while Miriam shifted in her seat looking like she wanted to escape. Audrey did not relent, continuing to offer solutions as if it were information she needed, and not a knowing hand placed on hers. Audrey may have even cited statistics.
Later Audrey would realize what she’d done. The next day she sent a note asking for Miriam to meet her for a walk. They went out on the downs where Audrey knew Miriam would feel comfortable so that she could talk about the pregnancy, the fear, the shame in having gotten in this situation again, knowing that this time she had nothing left in her to continue.
This was all history now, but it mattered to Audrey, her part in it.
The tea at the station café was tepid. The woman who served it had shoved it across the counter so that some leaked from the spout, her mood one that Audrey understood could not be challenged.
The train was further delayed, and so she was forced to wait in the café. She did not want to go to Manchester; she’d been travelling too much lately. There were things she wanted to do, needed to do.
A swim in the river for one. How long had it been? A week? She felt the stiffening of her body in this time. An aching that was proof enough that her body did better in motion.
How long had it been since she had begun swimming in the River Meon? Six years? Seven? That day so long ago, that had started with a walk around the Iron Age fort and down the slopes of the hill, her legs quivering, buckling under the strain, the heat gathering in her core, sweat seeping through.
The river like a mirage. The sun had made the water invisible, such was the clarity of it. This was a chalk river, the water flowed from the chalk aquifer across flinty gravel beds out to sea and made it clear as glass. At the bend in the river, under cover of a clump of willows, she slipped out of her clothes and walked into the water. Her legs cramped from the cold, and her mind flipped back to her childhood, when she would sneak away from the house to sit on the riverbank, her legs dangling in the frigid water as she read a book, the cool, crisp water drifting over her feet. The swim triggered more memories, of a time when her body felt vital, vibrant, when she could feel blood pulsing through her, like the cogs and hydraulics of an industrial machine.
Her heart was alert as she thrust her body into the water, her breath caught in her lungs, and she felt the familiar cold compression. After few quick, sharp breaths, her face loosened into a smile. Her body floated in front of her as she leaned back. She could see her toes, the pebbles on the riverbed, the tree roots submerged on the other side. This had been the beginning of her ritual.
Now sitting in the café, wanting to be back home while held hostage to the train’s schedule, she knew she’d have figured things out with Miriam, she knew she would have been able to see what her friend needed if she’d maintained this routine, if she hadn’t been so busy with her lectures. That’s what the river gave her. Clarity.
Audrey had invited Miriam to join her, thinking a trip would do her good, but she’d refused, saying Edmund needed help at the shop. But it was the King’s Cup, Audrey knew. That’s what she was competing with. With the big race coming up, Miriam seemed more in the air than ever, even when she wasn’t flying.
If Miriam had joined her, they would have had a chance to talk, this would have been an opportunity to know her better. Audrey understood that so far she’d only really observed Miriam, their conversations following pathways she had set. Audrey wanted Miriam to confide in her, to tell her something of her world, of her past.
It was possible they could reveal something to the other. They had come close, she knew. But there were still things to share, about Edmund, for example, or what it felt like to control a plane, about her own fears for a war. It was hard to talk about these things outright. If Miriam could have come with her on this trip it might have been bearable.
Is this what she wanted? Was it friendship she needed, rather than just to be admired?
The train whistle bellowed, and she took one last sip of her tea. The woman was wiping down the counter as if urging her out the door but Audrey would not be cowed, so she waited until the train pulled into the station before gathering her bags and stepping outside.