Barbara Bradford - A Woman of Substance

‘Don’t be silly. I’ll always come back to see you. I’ve missed you, too, Frank. Now, come along, stop crying and let me take off my coat.’

Winston had thrown his cap on to a chair, and unable to look at Emma in his anxiety, he stared with distaste at the food on the plate. It had long ago coagulated into a mass of limp Yorkshire pudding, frizzled roast beef, mashed potatoes, and Brussels sprouts, all running together in a rapidly drying gravy. ‘I don’t feel very hungry,’ he muttered in a low voice. Winston discovered to his dismay that he had lost his nerve. How could he tell her? All the right words had fled, leaving his mind empty.

‘Me Aunt Lily’ll be mad if yer don’t eat yer dinner,’ warned Frank.

Emma hung up her coat behind the door and returned to the fireplace with the shopping bag. She placed the flowers in the sink and pulled out the presents for Frank, hoping to bring a smile to that cheerless little face. ‘These are for you, love,’ she said with a bright smile, and then addressed her older brother. ‘I’m sorry, Winston, I didn’t bring you anything. I didn’t know you’d be home on leave. But never mind, this will come in useful, I’m sure.’ As she spoke she opened her reticule and took out one of the new pound notes. ‘Take this, Winston. You can buy yourself some cigarettes and a pint or two.’

She carried the presents over to Frank, who accepted them from her silently. Then his eyes lit up. ‘Thank yer, Emma. Just what I needed.’ His pleasure was undisguised.

Now Emma busied herself at the Welsh dresser, taking out the other items. ‘These are for Dad,’ she said, her voice light. ‘Where is he?’ She glanced from Winston to Frank, a look of joyous expectation on her face.

Winston put the knife and fork down on the plate with a loud clatter, and Frank stood gazing at her vacantly, clutching his presents. Neither of them spoke.

‘Where’s our dad?’ asked Emma. They still did not reply and Winston dropped his eyes again but looked up quickly, flashing a warning to Frank, who had blanched.

‘What’s wrong? Why are you both so quiet?’ This was a fierce demand and fear began to trickle through her veins. She grabbed hold of Winston’s arm urgently and brought her face closer to his, peering into his eyes, ‘Where is he, Winston?’

Winston cleared his throat nervously. ‘He’s with our mam, Emma.’

Emma experienced a little burst of relief. ‘Oh, you mean he’s gone to visit her grave. I wish I’d been a bit sooner and I could have gone with him. I think I’ll run up there now, and catch him before he-’

‘No, Emma, you can’t do that,’ Winston cried, jumping up. He put his arm around her and led her to a chair. ‘Sit down a minute, Emma.’

Winston lowered himself into the chair opposite her. He took her hand in his and held it tightly. ‘You didn’t understand me, love,’ Winston began in a tiny voice that was so faint she could hardly hear it. ‘I didn’t mean our dad had gone to visit Mam’s grave. I meant he was there with her. Lying next to her in the graveyard.’

Winston watched her attentively, ready to move towards her if necessary, the desire to insulate her pain uppermost in his mind. But she seemed uncomprehending.

‘Our dad’s dead,’ said Frank, with his usual childlike bluntness. His voice was leaden with sorrow.

‘Dead,’ whispered Emma, incredulous. ‘He can’t be dead. It’s not possible. I would have known if he had died. I would have known inside. In my heart. I just know I would.’ As she uttered these words she realized from their grim expressions that it was true. Emma’s face crumpled. Tears welled into her eyes and spilled out over the rims and rolled down her cheeks silently, falling on to the front of the red silk dress in small splashes.

Winston’s eyes were blurred and he wept as he had wept when his father had died. Now his tears were for Emma. She had been so much closer to their father than either he or Frank. He brushed his hand across his eyes resolutely, resolving to be stalwart. He must try to console her, to alleviate her grief. He knelt at Emma’s feet and wrapped his arms around her body. She fell against him, sobs wracking her. ‘Oh, Winston! Oh, Winston! I never saw him again. I never saw him again!’ she wailed.

‘There, there, love,’ Winston said, stroking her hair, murmuring softly to her, pressing her to his chest, comforting and tender. After a long time her sobbing began to diminish and slowly subsided altogether.

Frank was making tea at the sink, swallowing his own tears. He had to be brave, a big boy. Winston had told him that. But Emma’s terrible distress had infected him and his shoulders jerked in silent misery. Winston became conscious of the boy’s wretchedness and he beckoned to Frank, stretching out one arm. Frank skittered across the floor and buried his head against Winston, who encircled his sister and brother in his arms, lovingly, and with great devotion. He was the head of the family now and responsible for them both. The three of them stayed huddled together in silent commiseration, drawing solace from their closeness, until eventually all of their tears were used up.

The kitchen was full of gently shifting shadows, the greying light outside intruding bleakly through the glass panes, the flames in the grate meagre as the logs burned low. There was no sound except the sibilant hissing of the kettle on the hob, the murmurous ticking of the old clock, the pattering of spring rain as it hit the windows. Winston’s voice sounded hollow in this dolorous silence. ‘It’s just the three of us now. We’ve got to stick together. We’ve got to be a family. That’s what Dad and Mam would want. We must look after each other. Emma, Frank, do you both hear me?’

‘Yes, Winston,’ whispered Frank.

Dazed and sorrowing, Emma drew herself up and wiped her face with one hand. She was white with anguish. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, and her mouth quivered, but she took steely control of herself, smiling at Winston weakly. She nodded her understanding of his words. She could not speak.

‘Frank, please bring the tea over to the table,’ Winston said, rising wearily. He sat in the chair opposite Emma and took out a cigarette. He looked at the packet of Woodbines and remembered, with a nostalgic twinge of sadness, how his father had always complained about his tab ends.

Emma pulled herself fully upright. She faced Winston. ‘Why didn’t you tell me straightaway, when I ran into you outside the White Horse?’ she murmured.

‘How could I, Emma? In the middle of the village street. I was so relieved to see you, I could only think how glad I was that you were safe and well. I was happy for a split second. And then I became afraid. That’s why I chattered on about the navy, and rushed you home the way I did. I knew you’d break down. I wanted you here, in this house, when you heard the bad news.’

‘Yes, you were right. You did the best thing. When did-did-our dad-’ She pressed her handkerchief to her face and endeavoured to suppress the sobs. She had been grief-stricken at her mother’s death, yet in a sense that had been anticipated for months. The news of her father’s passing away had been so unexpected she was devastated, in a state of awful shock.

‘He died five days after you left, last August,’ said Winston dully, dragging on his cigarette, his face a picture of despondency.

Emma turned a ghastly putty colour and her face was so rigid, so unmoving it might have been cut from stone. I never knew, she thought. All these months I’ve been writing to him. Writing terrible lies. And all the time he was dead, and buried in the cold earth. She clapped her hand over her mouth, choking back a sob, heaving in silence.