if she had not been so afraid, she would have killed herself. It was what they were all expecting, wasn’t it? Perhaps even what they wanted – Ben’s family, and all those people whose help she had spurned.
‘Burying herself up there. Brooding. Living from hand to mouth. Is she right in her mind? A young woman, twenty-one years old just, and alone in that cottage, talking to herself, never giving thought for anyone else.’
Perhaps they thought that she was becoming like old man Moony, out in his hovel beyond Priors Fen. But no, that was different, for he had been odd since anyone could remember, a cussed, dirty old man, who stumped for hours about the countryside, eyes down, giving no one Good-day. They accepted Moony. There had always been one like him, somewhere about. Moony had come back from the war and some said that was what had crazed him, that was the reason for his shutting himself away and trusting no one.
Was that how she wanted to be? ‘Proud,’ they said, ‘she was always proud.’ And it was more than likely she didn’t wash or bother with herself now, didn’t clean the house – though Jo told them that was not true. She had kept herself and the house as tidy and fresh as she had always done. That was what her pride meant.
So they talked about her, Dora Bryce, and Alice, and the wives and mothers of the men Ben had worked with, and told anyone who passed through the village too. They waited for her to go mad and run about the countryside stark naked, to be taken away. To be found dead.
No one missed anything. They knew how often she went across the four fields and down through the slopes of the beech woods to Helm Bottom, and how long she stayed there, crouched near to where the tree had fallen; they knew that she went up, and how often, not by day but at night, to the graveyard. There was nothing they did not know, and although she shut her doors and bolted her windows and the elms were thick and the bracken grew high as a man, although it was a mile to the next house and three to the village, she felt that they could see every movement she made, listen to her voice and her crying.
She sat on, sewing, and the house was quiet as a coffin and outside, too, it was quite still and the trunks of the beeches were like columns of lead under the moon.
In his bed, at the top of the house in Foss Lane, Jo lay, his eyes open, so that he saw the thin band of night sky, where the curtains did not meet together, and thought of Ruth, as he always thought of her, with love and fear. He knew that whatever she needed, it could only come from him, all the responsibility for her had fallen from his brother’s shoulders on to his own, and he was not always sure how well he could bear it, along with his own grief, which he had to keep locked within him, he dreaded that he might one day let Ruth down, and be unable to help it. She said, ‘I manage. I don’t need anyone,’ and only he knew that it was not true.
He felt tired. Yet, in the end, there was always something, a hard core of energy and hope which he could touch like a charm, and draw strength from. If he feared, he did not ever despair. He was master of himself.
Sounds carried. A squirrel or some night-bird scuttling over the tin roof of the shed at the other side of the garden , might have been scuttling in her own head. She folded the pillow case, and put needle and thread and thimble back into the padded work-box. She went upstairs to bed, and her arms and legs felt as if they were held down by weights. She would sleep, as she always did now, a sleep that was dark and thick and stifling, as though it was she who had the great clods of soil and turf piled on top of her. She did not dream or stir, nor ever want to waken, and have another day begin.
But tonight, after only an hour, she opened her eyes suddenly, and heard the silence in the house, and beyond it, and remembered what she had to do. It was time, it was six months since Ben had died, and
‘Burying herself up there. Brooding. Living from hand to mouth. Is she right in her mind? A young woman, twenty-one years old just, and alone in that cottage, talking to herself, never giving thought for anyone else.’
Perhaps they thought that she was becoming like old man Moony, out in his hovel beyond Priors Fen. But no, that was different, for he had been odd since anyone could remember, a cussed, dirty old man, who stumped for hours about the countryside, eyes down, giving no one Good-day. They accepted Moony. There had always been one like him, somewhere about. Moony had come back from the war and some said that was what had crazed him, that was the reason for his shutting himself away and trusting no one.
Was that how she wanted to be? ‘Proud,’ they said, ‘she was always proud.’ And it was more than likely she didn’t wash or bother with herself now, didn’t clean the house – though Jo told them that was not true. She had kept herself and the house as tidy and fresh as she had always done. That was what her pride meant.
So they talked about her, Dora Bryce, and Alice, and the wives and mothers of the men Ben had worked with, and told anyone who passed through the village too. They waited for her to go mad and run about the countryside stark naked, to be taken away. To be found dead.
No one missed anything. They knew how often she went across the four fields and down through the slopes of the beech woods to Helm Bottom, and how long she stayed there, crouched near to where the tree had fallen; they knew that she went up, and how often, not by day but at night, to the graveyard. There was nothing they did not know, and although she shut her doors and bolted her windows and the elms were thick and the bracken grew high as a man, although it was a mile to the next house and three to the village, she felt that they could see every movement she made, listen to her voice and her crying.
She sat on, sewing, and the house was quiet as a coffin and outside, too, it was quite still and the trunks of the beeches were like columns of lead under the moon.
In his bed, at the top of the house in Foss Lane, Jo lay, his eyes open, so that he saw the thin band of night sky, where the curtains did not meet together, and thought of Ruth, as he always thought of her, with love and fear. He knew that whatever she needed, it could only come from him, all the responsibility for her had fallen from his brother’s shoulders on to his own, and he was not always sure how well he could bear it, along with his own grief, which he had to keep locked within him, he dreaded that he might one day let Ruth down, and be unable to help it. She said, ‘I manage. I don’t need anyone,’ and only he knew that it was not true.
He felt tired. Yet, in the end, there was always something, a hard core of energy and hope which he could touch like a charm, and draw strength from. If he feared, he did not ever despair. He was master of himself.
Sounds carried. A squirrel or some night-bird scuttling over the tin roof of the shed at the other side of the garden , might have been scuttling in her own head. She folded the pillow case, and put needle and thread and thimble back into the padded work-box. She went upstairs to bed, and her arms and legs felt as if they were held down by weights. She would sleep, as she always did now, a sleep that was dark and thick and stifling, as though it was she who had the great clods of soil and turf piled on top of her. She did not dream or stir, nor ever want to waken, and have another day begin.
But tonight, after only an hour, she opened her eyes suddenly, and heard the silence in the house, and beyond it, and remembered what she had to do. It was time, it was six months since Ben had died, and