The War Widow. Lorna Gray

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      Mary was examining his face a little more closely, perhaps reading the traces of the rise and fall of my marriage in the uneven brush strokes. Then she returned the wad to its home and handed the sketchbook back. “We thought you were a spinster. You’re so self-contained.”

      That made me smile. “No.”

      We sat for a while in a companionable silence, her contemplating the view, me finishing my painting, before, with a sigh, Mary abruptly twisted in her seat to draw her feet up onto the broad stonework and began fiddling with a bracelet. I painted for a while longer but then she sighed again, more loudly, and I realised what she wanted.

      “Is something the matter?” I finally asked, just as I was supposed to do. She was staring at the metal band that encircled her wrist and her face had set into an unusually serious frown that was somehow very endearing.

      She said abruptly, “It’s irresponsible, don’t you think?”

      “What is?”

      “The fuss they’ve been making about the Royal Wedding. They’re deliberately bombarding us with the fairytale of being a princess and being swept off one’s feet by a beau and it’s unachievable.”

      I couldn’t help smiling. “But the bride in question is a princess.”

      “Don’t laugh; it’s true. It sets an unobtainable standard and gives rise to all sorts of pressures and expectations. And they keep making such a big statement out of the fact the poor woman has had to hoard her clothing coupons like the rest of us as if that’s a good thing. I’m so heartily sick of having to make-do-and-mend.”

      I caught a brief fluttering glance beneath those elegant lashes. It made me say blandly, “Well at least if you wanted to escape all the fuss, I suppose you’ve come to the right place.”

      I saw her blink at me incredulously and then blink again. “Are you being serious? You are being serious.” She laughed. “Haven’t you noticed that the town is overflowing with people and events and tea dances? It’s November: the town should be battened down for the closed season and instead all the usual summer entertainments are out in force. It’s like that tale of the swallow that stayed for winter or something. They’ve got the funicular running up and down the hill for heaven’s sake and I should know because it was the only activity remotely pertaining to a holiday that I managed to do yesterday.”

      I stared at her blankly. I really hadn’t noticed.

      She continued, “It all makes a bit more sense now that I know you were married. Your independence, I mean. We had wondered if you were a real oddity; you know, one of those aggressively intellectual women who purse their lips and forge their own path come what may and are destined ultimately to decay into irritating habits and dressing in frills for dinner like the Miss Bartlemans.”

      Something unguarded in me made me say rather dryly, “I’m flattered that you think I’m an intellectual.”

      I’d surprised her. Obviously she didn’t expect me to react at all. She blinked at me and drew her coat more closely around her waist. There was a chill in the light breeze here. Having secured her coat with its belt, she then returned her attention to the heavy bracelet around her wrist. I saw the corners of her lips curve. “I suppose it’s natural that you wouldn’t feel the burden of being in a nation obsessed by a wedding. You’ve done your stint in acting the part of a romantic. You’re free to be alone now and no one can judge you for it.”

      I had to raise my eyebrows at that. She cast a sly sideways glance at me and grinned.

      “All right, everyone gets judged. All the time. But it’s not the same, you know it’s not. A few years ago I drove ambulances – at least I did when the old drivers let me which wasn’t all that often – and looked glamorous while I did it and everyone said it was a jolly good thing because we were keeping the image of the merry English Rose alive so that the troops had something to dream of while they were laying down their lives to defend us. Now the men have come home again and it’s important we still keep hauling out our tired old glamour even if it is all getting rather worn and thin, because now our job is to be swept away by marriage like the blushing females they dreamed of.”

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