Esther went about her work during the afternoon in a daze. Ever before her mind’s eye was a smiling face with brilliant blue eyes. By dusk, when Kate was in bed and Esther began the evening milking, she had given up hope of seeing him again that day.
‘Hello,’ came the soft, bass voice, and Esther looked around Clover’s rump to see a dark shadow framed in the early evening sunlight leaning over the half-door. She felt a sudden flutter beneath her ribs, and her fingers stopped their gentle pulling on the cow’s teats and involuntarily she tightened her hold.
Clover, unused to such ungentle treatment particularly
from Esther, lashed her tail and kicked out sideways with her hind leg. The cow’s hoof struck Esther’s knee and the swishing tail cuffed her cheek. Surprised, she toppled backwards on to the cobbles of the cowshed.
In an instant he was bending over her, dropping to one knee in the slurry, his blue eyes clouded with anxiety.
‘Are you hurt?’ He put his arm under her shoulders and bent as if to put the other under her knees to pick her up, but, more startled than hurt, Esther struggled to rise.
‘No – no, really. I’m fine.’ She gave a nervous laugh as she gained her feet, disturbingly aware that he was still supporting her, standing very close and holding her arm.
Clover had turned her head and was looking at Esther with soulful eyes. Esther reached out and patted the cow’s back. ‘It’s all right, old girl, it was my fault,’ she crooned gently. Embarrassed, she looked up into Jonathan Godfrey’s face and explained, ‘She – she’s temperamental and needs a lot of coaxing . . .’ Feeling an unaccustomed foolishness, she let her voice trail away.
Gently, he said, ‘It was my fault entirely, I startled you – and her.’ Tentatively, he put out his hand and stroked Clover’s hide. The cow moved under his touch, but it was a movement of pleasure rather than of restless irritation.
Esther laughed in surprise. ‘She likes you. You must have a special touch.’ Immediately the words were spoken, she flushed with embarrassment, and more so when she realized he had still not let go of her arm.
She pulled away and bent to pick up from underneath the cow the pail of milk, which, miraculously, was still upright.
‘Here, let me,’ he offered and without giving her chance to refuse, gently but firmly, he took the pail from her hands. ‘Where do you want it?’
‘In the house, please,’ she said a little breathlessly. ‘In the pantry.’
‘Right you are, Ma’am,’ he teased, then added more seriously as he noticed her limping slightly as she left the cowshed, ‘Did she hurt you?’
‘Not much – but she caught me right on my knee.’
He pulled a face as if he shared her pain. ‘Ouch!’ he murmured with feeling.
Esther laughed wryly. ‘Too true! But it’ll soon go. It’s not the first kick I’ve had by a long way, an’ I don’t expect it’ll be the last, either.’
Whilst he set the milk carefully in the pantry, she lifted the kettle from the hob and mashed a pot of tea.
He came back and stood before the range, spreading out his hands towards the warmth of the fire, for the early spring evening had grown chill. He gazed into the flames and there was a far-away look in his eyes.
Esther came to stand beside him, holding a cup of tea. She looked up at him, watching his profile in the flickering light, the straight nose and smooth, firm chin, the well-shaped mouth that smiled so readily. But now there was no smile upon his lips. Whatever his thoughts were, they were grave. Slowly he turned to look at her and for what seemed an age they just stood there looking deep into each other’s eyes.
At last Esther stammered, ‘Er – would you like a cup of tea?’
He started visibly as if she had woken him from a
daydream. Perhaps she had, but in the next instant he was taking the cup from her and as their fingers touched, she felt a tingle run through her.
Alarmed that the touch of a stranger could arouse such a feeling in her, Esther stepped backwards and put the distance of the hearth rug between them. As if realizing what her action meant, there was a fleeting look of disappointment upon his face that this time she did not imagine. He smiled sadly and, taking a mouthful of tea, looked around him. His eyes rested upon the silver-framed photograph and the several postcards stacked behind it.
He nodded towards it. ‘Your husband?’
‘Yes – yes. That’s Matthew. He’s – he’s a soldier, like you. I think he’s somewhere in France. He sends me a postcard every six weeks or so, just to let me know – he’s – he’s all right. He doesn’t write much.’
‘We’re not allowed to say much at all,’ Jonathan Godfrey defended Matthew. ‘You’re lucky to hear anything, believe me.’
‘What’s it like out there?’ Immediately she had spoken the words aloud she wished them unsaid, for the haunted look of anguish that came into his eyes filled her with guilt.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said at once. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. You want to try to forget for a time, while you’re home.’
He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘There’s no way of forgetting. Not ever.’ His voice was a hoarse whisper and once again he just stood gazing down into the fire.
He was not seeing the fire in the range in Esther’s kitchen. He was seeing flashes of gunfire and mangled
flesh, hearing the thud, thud, thud of the guns and the screams of his comrades.
‘Oh, you try to push it out of your thoughts,’ he said slowly, ‘but then it all comes flooding back when you least expect it – or want it. At night, just when you’re falling asleep. Or in quiet moments like this. Moments that should be peaceful and – ’ he raised his head and looked directly into her eyes – ‘savoured.’ There was a long pause then he added, flatly, ‘But back it all comes to torment you.’
Now she moved back closer to him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered again.
‘It’s – all right. It’s natural that you think you want to know. But you don’t, believe me you really don’t.’
Esther returned his gaze steadily. ‘I’m not afraid of the truth, however bad it is.’
‘No – no, I don’t believe you are.’ His eyes roamed wonderingly over her face, her hair and then came back to look once more into her eyes. Those steadfast green eyes that returned his gaze so directly. He leaned forward, lifting his hand to touch her cheek with gentle fingers.
For one breathless moment, she thought he was going to kiss her, but as his fingertips brushed her cheek, he jumped physically as if he had been stung and stepped back abruptly. In the fading light of the evening, the firelight glinted on his hair and highlighted his cheekbones, his fine nose and firm jawline. His eyes were shadowed, but she could hear his rapid breathing.
Brusquely he said, ‘I shouldn’t be here – I must go.’
He turned, went out into the scullery and wrenched open the back door.
Esther followed him, the words bursting from her lips before she could contain them, ‘How long are ya staying?’
He stood very still, his hand on the latch, but he did not turn round. Muffled, the words came to her in staccato jerks. ‘I don’t know – but I must leave. Tomorrow – I’ll have to go – tomorrow.’
She felt the disappointment flood through her. ‘But I thought you were going to stay longer – a few days, you said.’ The words were out of her mouth before she thought to stop them. They were like a reproach. ‘Why must you go so soon?’
‘I must. Goodbye, Mrs Hilton.’ He dropped his hand from the door and the action was like a gesture of despair. He took a step forward, but still he did not look back. He walked away from her and though she stood watching him through the dusk all the way to the gate and into the lane, not once did he turn or wave.
By the set of his shoulders, it was as if he were afraid to look back at her.
Esther lay awake for most of the night haunted by the feel of the feather-light touch of his fingers on her cheek and then his sudden brusqueness.
She could not bear to think of his leaving in the morning, knowing that she would never see him again. She groaned aloud and buried her head in the softness of her pillow. What was she thinking of? What was the matter with her? She was a married woman with a child.
She had only just met him and yet when she closed her eyes, she could see his face so vividly; his smile, the kind blue eyes, and yet his jawline was firm and his handsome face showed strength and honesty . . .
The following morning seemed to drag and Esther found herself watching the lane leading from the Point to the town. The lane he must walk down when he left. She snapped at Kate every time the child tried to catch her attention. She raced through the milking, even shouting at Clover and slapping her rump sharply when the cow moved restlessly, to be repaid by the cow kicking over the pail of milk and wasting it all.
Common sense would have told her she was being foolish and very unfair to Kate – and the animals.
But common sense seemed to have deserted her.
By lunch time when Enid arrived, Esther was so irritable that she decided that the only thing to do was to go up to her favourite spot at the end of the Spit to see if the place where the land and the sea and the sky became one would soothe and calm her – and maybe bring her to her senses.
Beyond the lane she climbed over the bank and crossed the marshland towards the East Dunes heading for the beach.
He’ll have gone by now, she told herself firmly. She must have missed seeing him pass by her farm gate. Yes, she reminded herself sharply, her farm gate. That was all that mattered. Her farm, her land.
She reached the Spit and walked the length of it, breathing in the sea air deeply. She bent and picked up a handful of earth, clutching it in her hand, holding it
close to her body in that space beneath her ribs where she had felt, and still felt, that peculiar fluttering of nervousness when she saw Jonathan Godfrey – or even thought of him.
‘This land is mine,’ she said aloud to the sea and the sky as if daring them to refute her words. She threw back her head and closed her eyes and swayed with the soft breeze, wrapping the place around her like a cloak or, more to the point, a suit of armour. Nothing and no one mattered to her more than this land.
His face was still before her; she could not blot out the memory of his smile . . .
‘Mrs Hilton – Esther.’
The deep voice spoke so softly behind her that for a moment she thought she had imagined it carried on the wind, brought to her ears by her thoughts.
‘Esther?’ There was uncertainty in his tone now when she did not respond, did not move.
She opened her eyes and slowly turned to face him, tilting her head to look up at him. The wave of hair flopped forward over his forehead on which now there was an anxious furrow. Involuntarily, her fingers fluttered to smooth away his worry, but she fought off the desire, clenching her hands together and squeezing the earth she already held.
‘I – thought you were leaving. Have you come to say goodbye?’
He shook his head slowly, as if he didn’t quite believe it himself. ‘No. No, I’m not going yet.’
For a timeless moment they stood and stared at each other whilst the tiny waves lapped at their feet and the seagulls wheeled and dived and screeched above them.
Slowly she dropped the handful of earth she was holding and brushed the dirt from her finger.
‘I saw you from my bedroom window in the pub, crossing the marsh, coming this way,’ he was saying. ‘I was all ready to go – to leave, then I saw you walking out here all alone. And I couldn’t go,’ he ended simply.
He held out his hand to steady her as side by side they walked back along the narrow strip of land.
After a moment’s hesitation, for something told her that she was about to take a step from which there would be no turning back, she put her hand into his.
T
HEY
met every day. At some point in every day, they were together. Sometimes for a few snatched moments, sometimes for an hour. And for the rest of the time, he filled her mind.
‘When must you go?’ she would ask, fearful of the answer yet needing to know. ‘How long can you stay?’
‘A few more days,’ he would answer gently, ‘then I should go.’
The few days stretched into a week and then two and soon she ceased to ask ‘how long?’. She could make him stay, she told herself, she would make him stay. He had no need to go back to France. He’d been wounded, hadn’t he? He’d done his bit in anybody’s book!
They walked the seashore, side by side, not quite touching, and yet the closeness between them was like a physical embrace. They walked the dunes and they found a sheltered hollow that became their special place to sit and talk.
‘Where is it you come from?’ she asked him. ‘Lincoln, did you say? It’s a city, isn’t it? I’ve never been to a city.’ There was a wistful note in her voice.
‘Should you like to go?’ Jonathan asked softly.
She leant against his shoulder and looked up at him coyly. ‘Maybe – with you. Tell me about it?’
‘Well,’ he began, idly tracing lines in the sand,
drawing a rough sketch-map to illustrate his words. ‘There’s a cathedral high on the hillside – built by the Romans, would you believe? It dominates the city. Wherever you are, you can see it standing proudly overlooking us all. Then the houses and streets sort of radiate out from it. There’s a steep hill climb with old houses built close together on either side – buildings so old you’d wonder sometimes how they still stand.’
Esther watched his face as he talked. Watched the memories of his home flitting across his face. Memories in which she had no place. She loved the sound of his deep voice. There was little trace in his speech of the Lincolnshire dialect that was so prevalent in the countryside, and so strong in hers.
‘Quaint little shops,’ he was saying, ‘and old bookshops – dusty and musty, but fascinating – all huddling together on the hillside. Near the cathedral there’s a castle with dungeons. It’s old too, though I can’t remember when that was built.’ He grinned at her ruefully. ‘I expect I was told at school, but somehow in your own home town you take things for granted. They’re there. You expect them always to be there, so you don’t bother.’
Esther nodded eagerly. ‘It’s like the sea here. It fascinates me. I love to stand on the Spit and watch it come swirling in around me, but the folks who’ve lived here all their lives never come to look at it. They just know it’s there.’