Leave him to me, and the girl tooleave her.
It was many years ago, on a crisp spring morning, when a woman stood before a weather-beaten, two-storey timber house, the once-proud porch long since chopped for firewood. Her hair, dark as a stormy evening, lay twisted under a thin scarfa style old-fashioned even then, looping the crown of her head. She wore a patched quilting jacket, her narrow waist girded by an old army belt, and a haversack slung over one exhausted shoulder. With anxious eyes, she gazed at the upper windows, her heart restless as a bird in a snare.
At last, she sigheda deep tremor ran through herand her eyes flashed with feverish resolve as she crossed the threshold. Weak in the knees, she climbed the creaking stairs and turned left down the corridor.
This room had belonged to her husband, awarded before the war. This was where their little Mary was born.
Opposite, in the hall, a sharp pair of eyes appeared. It was an old neighbour, Mrs. Jenkins, dressed hastily in a short tweed coat flung over her nightdress, white, spindly legs stark between the hem and her worn galoshes.
Whos that now? Lord above! Can it really be you, Margaret, come back at last?
Margaret peered through the gloom, then recognised her neighbour.
Its me, Auntie Joan.
Well, I told Alfieyou mind, Alfie, your wifell come home, I said!I told him, she shook her head, Alive, then Its good.
Margaret stepped closer.
And you? Youre well?
Ha! Well enough. Havent died, have I? There was hunger, child, oh, such terrible hunger! Only your Alf did all right. Been through the wars, though lost his fingers, working at the mill. Got caught in the machinery, yes! But his Kate nursed him. Shes not stingy, working at the canteen. They get by, those two. Auntie Joan caught herself, flapping a hand, Oh, dont listen to daft old me. Knock, deartheyre at home likely still asleep.
Clattering down the stairs, she muttered to herself as she went out, galoshes slapping the old flagstones.
Margarets fear returned, but she shook it off firmly. Was this not her home? That her husband lived with anothershed first learnt it in the camp. Hadnt believed it then, nor ever quite since, blaming it on mishap or malice. But with him was her daughter, not seen these four and more long years. And in law, if not in feeling, this home was as much hers as any Kates.
Steeling herself, she rapped on the door. The silence that followed dragged on, the room as deaf to her knocking as to her thunderous heart.
She knocked again. At last, from within, a voicesleepy, sour, but unmistakably Alfs.
Who the devils there? Give a man peace, its Sunday!
Margarets throat choked. She couldnt speak. She stood in the hall, silent and motionless.
From behind, Auntie Joans shuffling resumed.
Wont let you in?
Margaret shrugged and leant against the wall. Aunt Joan approached the door, banged and, pressing her face to a chink, shouted,
Alf, open upits your wife back home!
A bed creaked and a cough rasped from inside.
Ill give you jokes, old hen! Footsteps, the latch clattered, the door creaked widethere stood Alf, in vest and pants, blinking at the light.
He didnt see Margaret at first. Give it a rest! Its Sunday, let a man but then his eyes fixed on the thin shape slumped by the wall. Margaret! he breathed, swaying, opening the door wider. Aunt Joan crossed herself and retreated to her own flat.
Youre here, then It was as if Alf were convincing himself. He backed into the room, waving her in.
She passed so close to him that she caught the old, forgotten scent of his skin. They stared. Four years since theyd seen one another.
The furniture was all just as she recalled: the pale wardrobe, a makeshift table draped in snowy linen, chintz-covered chairs, a sewing machine, Marys cot cobbled from an old trunk, pillow propped in a triangle. Perfect order and almost spotless.
Beyond the curtains strung on a wire, a metal bed groaned as someone stirred. Mary? Or?
Resolutely, gratefully, Margaret unlaced her service boots. Her feet throbbed from the journeyback in the camp shed promised herself never to wear them again.
She yearned to sweep that curtain aside and clasp her daughter. But the years and the discipline of hardship had schooled her restraint. There was no sign of a childonly the tidied cot.
She sank into a chair, loosening her belt and jacket.
Alf slipped behind the curtain, whispered, and soon came out dressed in trousers and a shirt, giving Margaret a sheepish smile. He rummaged in the wardrobe, ducked again behind the curtain, then sat at last across from her.
Youre home, then, he repeated.
Yes, home. The King gave us pardonall of us with children. Wheres Mary?
Shes all right He straightened, Its Sunday. Kates taken her to visit her gran for goats milk. Marys gone off to school, just started at St. Marys. Theyre pleased with her over there. He gestured at the curtain and fell silent.
Which gran?
Kates mum, that isMrs. Turner, he admitted, unable to meet her gaze, Kates mum.
He looked neither apologetic nor defiantjust defeated, world-weary.
It was then the curtain whipped aside, and with businesslike precision, a woman finished making the bedstrong, quick, round-faced, with pencilled brows and glossy hair knotted briskly. Kate wore a blue sweater and a skirt alive with colour, her lips pressed together as she tied a scarf around her head.
She whisked the cloth off the table. You make yourselves comfortable, Im off to work. Ill bring Mary home at lunchtime.
She gathered her things into a sack, bustling about without so much as a word of goodbye.
Margaret observed herKate, full-figured and youthful. How changed she herself must seem now to Alf, after the years away: tall, but reduced to angular bone and tough skin, her once-remarkable eyes now hollow with fatigue. Still pretty, perhaps, but the dark marks beneath her eyelids remained, unbanishable by sleep.
Alf began to lay out lunch, single-handedly: dried meat, pickled cucumbers, breadneatly managed with his strong left hand, his right stiff and mutilated.
Margarets stomach tightened. The journey had taken more than two days, and shed eaten decently only the first of them. Real meatshe hadnt tasted it in a hundred years.
Hungry, love? Comeeat. Alf offered.
She washed at the basin and fell on the food.
Alf watched her, pitying. You stopped writing. I thoughtmaybe youd found another life, there.
He rubbed at his brow with his damaged hand. Only now did Margaret truly see it, the loss.
I wrote. Didnt know Aunt Sylvia had passed. There wasnt any other life. All I wanted was to come home, to my family
And me? Was I some sort of villain?
Margaret kept silent, sipping her tea.
He stared out of the window. We were desperate, Maggie. Mary was so small and I had to work. I started bringing her along to the millshed bawl if left alone, and neighbours well, you knowthere wasnt food to spare even for themselves. She grew weak. But with me at the canteen, Kated feed her a little. We were all frightened, you know. You were sent away for nothing at all and Kate was scared as well. But Mary grew healthy again, started playing. Then he waved that ruined hand when I was injured, Kate looked after me too. Thats how it happened.
And Mary?
Bold little lassbosses the boys around the yard, she does. Does well at schoolKates proud of her.
They used to take our letters, only one a month got through. I wrote to Sylvia to pass them on. Later, cousin Charles wrote to say Sylvias diednone of my letters reached you since.
Aye, been dead two years. I thought you were lost, or made your life elsewhere.
Margaret managed a bitter smile. So you expected me to disappear, did you? But here I am, as unwelcome as snow in June.
Alf jumped up from the stool. No, thats not it! If Id thought but I didnt.
In a rush, he embraced her, gathering her framethin and unfamiliar though it wasclose, as though he might mend four years absence by the strength of his arms alone.
For a long while, they stood thus, his cheek pressed to her familiar hair-plaited circlet, her head heavy with memories.
She murmured at last, Bring me Mary, Alf. Pleaselet me see her
And what then, Maggie? What do we do now?
Just bring Mary to me.
He gathered his things and prepared to go, looking back uncertainly, as if to check she had truly returned. She moved to the window, watching his stooped figure vanish beneath the old archway, reading in his stride that things had been no easier for him, either.
Margaret slumped on her daughters bed, clutching the bedspread and inhaling the scent, trying to conjure distant memories of home.
When shed been sentenced, Mary had barely turned four. She was eight now. They found in her bunk, under this very bed, a sack of corn Margaret had hiddena gift from an acquaintance at the station. Those were hungry days; everyone took a share.
For a sack of corn, theyd judged them eighty at the assizes, all from her little market town. Ten years shed received.
She remembered Marypeering up through the railway carriage slot as the train carried her away, not seeing her mother, clinging instead to her fathers hand. Alf, unable to write, could barely readtheir news filtered through Aunt Sylvia. But now even that link had been lost, unknown to Margaret.
Margaret shrugged off her thick jumper and approached the wardrobe. All unfamiliar thingsstrange, as if she were a guest in her own home. Shed clung to the hope that peace and happiness awaited her here, that shed find comfort and rest at last. She was twenty-nine, but weary beyond her years.
She stood by the open wardrobe just as Kate strode in, tugging off her headscarf sharply.
Checking up, are you? Kates tone was brittle.
I just wanted to put this away, Margaret replied, holding up her jumper.
Kate, brisk and businesslike, gathered her own things from a shelf, shifting them about. Thereroom for it.
No trouble, Ill just put it up here, Margaret said, folding her jumper and tucking it on the shelf by the door.
Throwing herself into a chair, Kate pressed on. I keep this place tidylook after Alf and Mary, you know!
I can see its spotless.
And at work, too. The managers always praising my canteen!
Good on you
Then suddenly Kate was on her feet, face twisted, voice thick with pain.
Go, will you? Leave us be! Alf is happy herehell never have it better. And Maryshe calls me Mum! At school, at homeno one else knows you. She doesnt even remember you! Go awaygo back where you came from. I cant have children, and Marys all Ive got
Kates voice tumbled with misery, and Margaret, stunned by the plea, struggled to comprehend.
When at last understanding dawned, she replied calmly.
I wont go. Ive come home to my daughter, my husband, my house. Alfs out fetching Mary.
Kate exhaled, dropping her hand to her breast, her scarf falling to the floor.
I knowhe came by the canteen, told us all. Mothers beside herselfshe wont stand this. I’ll have to go calm her, or shell wither from worry, Kate slumped heavily.
Is it such sorrow, if a childs mother comes back alive? said Margaret, stepping closer.
You wont leave, then? Kate was lost in herself.
No, I wont. Let Alf choose who he wants. But MaryMarys mine.
Kates hand flicked in the air.
So, thats it. You want him backall because of the girl, you sly thing! What about all those years? Werent there plenty of men in those camps? Dont tell me you lived like a saintyou’re the same as the rest! Kate spat the words.
Margaret flinched, stung, but held her tongue. Years in the camp had deafened her to insultsshed learned from women of dignity that life, even in the bleakest times, still permitted decency.
Theres time enoughone can still live with honour, Miss Clemency, the old imprisoned schoolmistress, had always said.
She remembered her mentors example and tried to pity Kate.
Youll regret this, Kate. Why put yourself through it?
Kate, bewitched more by Margarets quiet than by a harsh word, looked baffled, then flung herself on the bed, sobbing.
Dont take himplease dont! You managed alone all these years, youll cope again, you and and Mary but Ioh, I shall die without them.
There was a desperate wish to grab her bundle and flee, but Margaret only covered her face, elbows on the table. She would not leave. She had nowhere else to go and would not move without her daughter.
Finally, Kate managed herself, wiped her face, tied her scarf, and departed, mumbling a faint goodbye.
Afterwards, Margaret found herself adriftwalking aimlessly about the small room, glancing out, not jealous so much as empty. Long absence had cancelled any claim to such feelings. She understood Alf, after allhe had grown lonely; who could blame him?
But what next? Take Mary and go? Out to Oxford, maybe, as her old friend Ann had suggested. The address was in her memory.
She began, half-heartedly, to gather her things to the door, but soon sat back on the small cot, overcome with exhaustion, and drifted into a fretful sleep.
She awoke to the sound of soft footsteps. A tall, long-legged girl crept in, cocooned in a green check coat and white woolly scarf, followed by Alf. They were whispering softly.
As she sat up, Alf nudged the girl forward.
Mary, hereyour mums come home.
Mary resembled her, as if unswervinglydark hair plaited in two neat coils, a piercing gaze, firm lips.
When Margaret left, Mary was a toddlernow she was a grown girl. Unable to speak, Margaret reached out.
Mary hesitated, glancing at her father. Wheres Mum?
Shell be home soon, say hello Alf gently pushed her on.
Hello, Mary nodded, polite but wary.
Marydont you remember me? Margarets voice trembled.
I do, Mary murmured, looking away.
Margaret grasped her hand and sat her down.
I remember you as a little one. What do you remember?
I remember the merry-go-round, and when youwhen you took me sledging she glanced again at Alf, Is Mum coming soon?
Shes at work, you know that.
Alf, troubled, stared through the window.
Whats out there, Mary? she asked.
Mary ran to peer out, waving at someone below.
Together, Margaret looked as well, and saw the elderly Mrs. Turner hobble away, drawn and worried, glancing back with fear.
Thats Kates mother, Alf explained, She and Marythick as thieves. Shes fretting.
And Mary lingered at the window. It dawned on Margaret how shattering it must be for the girlher whole world overturned. There had been Mum, Dad, Grannow suddenly, a stranger arrived, her real mother, fresh from prison and empty-handed.
In that instant, Margaret decided. She called softly to Alf, asked him to step outside.
Approaching Mary, she whispered,
Im not staying long, Mary. I missed you terribly so Ive come to visit. Youre happy with your mumKate?
Mary nodded.
She loves you?
She nodded again.
No ones unkind to you?
Mary shook her head.
Thats very good. Stay as you are, study hard. Ill visit, and write oftenwill you write back?
Mary finally looked up, tearful, less afraid.
I can read now.
Ill write to you, then. Promise me youll answer.
Promise
Margaret hugged the child tightlythe little girl whod carried her through the darkest years, her living hope.
But then, with effort, she stepped awayambling boots, jacket, haversack.
Goodbye, Mary Her voice thickened with tears.
She strode into the corridor, catching Alf by surprise.
Goodbye, Alf. Take care of heryour daughter.
He stood there, cigarette glued to his lip, lost for words.
She had to get outout into the noisy safety of the street, into the crush of strangers at the station. Anywhere but here.
Down the stairs she went, skipping steps like a virtuoso at the piano, out into the brisk spring air, striding beneath the arch.
Dont look back, she told herself. But then
Mum! Mum, dont go! The call sliced through hera trilling cry. Mary, half out the window, called her.
Then she darted away from the window.
Margaret ran, breathless, up the stairsthe two met on the landing, Mary flung her arms about her waist.
Mum, I do remember! Honest, I waited for you to come home.
My darling Mary Margaret could speak no more.
Afterwards, Alf paced about, smoking, while Margaretstill in her jacketsat with Mary huddled close.
Your turn, Alfwhats to be done? she asked.
He didnt hesitate. Whats there to decide? Youre my wife. Stay. This is your home.
And Kate?
Ill sort it. Her mums house is there for her.
He started helping Margaret out of her coat, as though by that ritual her belonging was made real.
The next evening Kate returned, red-eyed and puffy, riding on a cart piled high with bundles.
Mum! cried Mary, running to her.
Kate stroked her head in silence, then began calmly bundling her things. Mary helped, and Kate instructed her gently, Remember these stockings, theyre still too big. Wear the blue frock for the fair andwell, youll need another for Christmas. Tell your mother.
Mary glanced fretfully at Margaret, but received only a gentle smile.
Kate gathered only her own things.
Anything else you want? Margaret gestured to the pots and pans.
Kate shrugged, and made for the door, arms loaded with bundles. Margaret called after her.
Have a cup of tea, at least.
Theyll be waiting, butif you insist.
They drank tea in silence, then Kate spoke softly.
Alf loves his stews. Only thing hed eat sometimes. His hands better nowdoesnt moan at night with pain. Dont give Mary too many sweets, her teeth are soft. And her ears give her trouble in winter.
Thank you.
Margaret helped carry down the bundles, helping the driver pile them onto the cart. Neighbours peered from their windowsnever had they seen a wife help her rival pack up and leave.
But perhaps, after war and hunger, the world had learnt some charityno one much remarked on it.
There in the yard, Kate turned and, eyes lowered, said, Forgive me. If Ive wronged you.
Margaret nodded. Youre forgiven. Thank you for caring for Mary and Alf. Must have been no small burden.
Kate flushed. MargaretI swear, Alfs yours. Ill never look his way again, not though I… her voice broke, Justpleaselet me and Mother see Mary. Weve grown so close.
You may visit her, Kate. I promise it. Shes family.
***
The next summer, Mary sat in the yard, rocking little Michael in his pram. Margaret returned from the clinic, breathless, worried that Michael might fuss for milk.
But the babe slept peacefully. Sighing, Margaret sat beside Mary.
Dads been, Ive had lunch, you go eat now.
Ill eat with Michael, it’s fine.
Then I’ll just slip over to Gransher gardens coming up, I said Id help.
Take care. Mind the road now, Mary
Mary flew away, light as a sparrow.
Mary Margaret called after, And send my regards to Aunt Kate. Tell her I hope shes happyin her rightful home!Mary turned in the sunlight, her hair a dark banner caught by the breeze. I will! she called, grinning, her voice clear and sure. She darted through the gate, and Margaret watched her goone strong, swift movement dissolving the shadows of years.
The house seemed to exhale, quiet now, just Margaret and her sleeping son. She leaned over Michael, tracing his warm cheek, and the peace of the afternoon settled around hera fragile thing, but real. Through the open window floated the distant shouts of children, the steady ring of a bell from St. Marys, the faint scent of lilac from a neighbors garden.
She rested her hand over Michaels tiny fist and closed her eyes, feelingfor the first time in so longa fullness where before there had been only absence. Her home had changed shape, her heart too, and she understood at last: love could be divided and multiplied, handed onwards without end. Forgiveness, like spring rain, made the ground richer for all.
When Mary returned in the pale blue dusk, hands stained with earth, she clattered through the door and pressed close against Margaret, whispering news of Aunt Kate, Gran, and the wide, wild, ordinary world.
Margaret held her children, sunlight gone to silver on the wall, and knew that whatever sorrow had passed through their lives, it had led them hereto this strange, sweet, hard-won happiness.
And together, they stayed.
