Her Victory Read Free Page B

place she was rapidly leaving. Clothes of all colours waved goodbye. The train was bully enough to push through any wind and to clear the clouds away, yet such free air could not disperse the ache that George still made her feel. He could crush himself from this point on. Perhaps he would even relish the chore of getting his own washing done now that she had a first-class ticket to St Pancras in her purse.
    Despite pain from the mark he had given, she knew herself to be happy. When tears pushed at her eyes she could visualize his face, and reassure herself how lucky she was. The sensation wouldn’t last, but would be so much better for that, providing she enjoyed it while she could, for wouldn’t she, after wandering around the shops of London, and eating a nice Italian dinner in Soho, come back tonight and be in the same old bed again?
    Happiness existed in a world she didn’t feel close to, even though she had separated from the one that had buried her for so long. She’d try not to go back, for all this couldn’t be for nothing. On her own, a certain amount of happiness would come from being in control both of herself and of the peace this gave – except that he had bruised her to make sure she would come back.
    Frosty breath floated like smoke from the mouths of cows. A tractor and its plough crawled on the brown earth of a field that sloped to the close horizon. A cloud of white birds shifted behind. God was in the oil of the tractor and on the wings of every bird, as well as in the separate vapour from each placid animal. She felt the warmth of their breathing. Perhaps God did exist, since she had made her move and could not explain what else had finally given her the courage to act. She pictured Him living below the ocean, under pebbles and soil at the exact middle of the land, a God of this earth only who directed billions of lives and held the fate of everyone in His power.
    On her way through town she had taken four hundred pounds out of their joint account, a poor sort of golden handshake when there was so much more (in his name only) in deposit accounts and building societies and insurance schemes and national savings. He told her little about such amounts that were put away in all kinds of places. At the beginning of their marriage she had known how much there was to the penny, but for a long time she had been uninterested, out of pride and laziness. There was also the house and car, and a catalogue of other items which by rights were half hers. But the money she had drawn was merely the retirement fund from an untenable situation, a bit to tide you over when you lit off in a demented escape without saying a proper farewell. There was also sixty pounds in her purse, cash he had kept in an old cigarette tin under a shoe box at the back of the wardrobe, as well as various rings and a watch which might be good for a meal or two.
    The bank manager looked from a half-open door. The girl who took her cheque went to see if she had as much in her account. She had it twice over. It was no business of the girl’s, who checked because she was new at her job and didn’t know her as the others did. Maybe the manager was looking at someone else. He smiled before closing his door.
    How many fields were there in England? There must be somebody alive who knew. They jumped hedges, rolled up hills, were sucked into cuttings, darkened into nothing by woods and tunnels. They opened like fans, and were split by full meandering streams, pure fields of green, ploughed, half ploughed, scrubbed meadows and clattering patchwork by the window as if they would come in and cover her.
    The door slid open.
    â€˜Coffee, madam?’
    He held a tray of sandwiches and drinks, and had come to laugh. He was tall, had fair crinkly hair that was somewhat long at the neck but went back in a vee at the front. There was nothing to do but look at him, and he didn’t mind, being fresh at the face and grey-eyed like a