A Country Road, A Tree Read Free Page A

holds the dishes, halted by the gravity of the moment: the moment that has been drawing everything towards it now for years.
    …by eleven o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us.
    His mother raises a hand to her mouth.
    I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.
    Sheila sits back at this; Mollie rubs her arms. His mother reaches for the door frame. Chamberlain’s voice continues to spool out from the wireless and tangle on the floor.
    “Well, there we are now,” Mollie says.
    Sheila reaches for her sister and their hands clasp. His mother still stands in the doorway, hand to the jamb. Her face has gone grey. He pushes himself upright, crosses the room to her. He takes her hand and slips it through his arm.
    “Here,” he says. He brings her over to her armchair. She is trembling.
    He switches the radio set off. Then there is just the little parlour, and the morning sunshine through the window, and the sea wind blustering, and you could tell yourself that nothing had changed, but these words have changed the world.
    The girls, though, their cardigans ballooning, their hair blown into tats. They’ll be huddled on a bench to finish up their lemon bonbons, coltsfoot rock, liquorice; they are still free from it. They’re a gorgeous empty spell of wind and hair and sweetness.
    “Can I get you something?” he asks.
    His mother shakes her head.
    He glances over at Sheila—pink cheeks, pink nose, a smile forced over a dimpling chin—and even as he watches, her smile thins, her lips pressed tight and trembling, and she turns to her sister and crumples into her.
    “Buck up now, darling,” Mollie says, rubbing her arm. “Don’t spoil your face.”

    After a moment, Sheila sniffs and nods and leans away, and dabs at her eyes with the flank of a hand. Because the girls must not see that she’s upset.
    “I’ll have to see about an earlier crossing,” she says.
    His mother blinks up now. “Whatever for?”
    “We must get back, May.”
    “No, indeed you must not. You heard what he said—there’s to be another war. You’ll be much safer here.”
    Sheila straightens her shoulders, touches her hair back into place. “You are so kind, May, dear, but you know, the children will want their father. Donald has to join his regiment, and we shall want to see him first.”
    “Well, Mollie,” May now says. “You’ll stay.”
    Mollie makes an apologetic moue. “A little while, May, but then I’m afraid I shall have to go too.”
    “Whatever for?”
    “Work. They’re expecting me.”
    May is left with nothing now but to turn her face away and be silent. She must swallow it down in one hard lump, this unpalatable truth that everyone has been chewing on for months. They may not like it either, but at least they have grown accustomed to the taste.
    He lays a hand on her shoulder. He feels the bones of her. She turns her sharp blue eyes on him.
    “I’m sorry,” he says.
    “This is hardly your fault.”
    —
    From that frozen moment, the household stillness breaks into a cascade. Voices bounce and spin around the place like spilled ball bearings. Stairs are hammered up and down. Telephone calls are placed, timetables consulted, sketched-out plans become solid and concrete.
    Lily turns out the hot press for the girls’ balled-up socks and folded vests and blouses; Sheila and Mollie discuss—at varying distances and volumes—the need for this item or that, the possible location of the other. Where are the girls’ good shoes? (They’re wearing them—which becomes evident on their return, all tangled hair and stickiness, dustily shod.) What about these books? Have you seen the hairbrush? Whose hairbrush? My hairbrush, the tortoiseshell hairbrush. Is this the one you mean? Feet clomp back and forth across the landing and up and down the stairs, then the voices