We Must Be Brave. Frances Liardet

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      ‘I don’t think she believes it yet,’ I said.

      ‘Oh, the poor mite. Oh, lord.’ Lucy gave a sad little chuckle. ‘Explains why she don’t like you. I didn’t much take to the woman who told me my ma was dead. Old boiler of a night nurse.’ She pursed her lips into an O. ‘“I have some very grave noos for yoo, Miss Horne.”’

      The hooting tone made me laugh in spite of myself. ‘She didn’t talk like that!’

      ‘She did.’

      We went back to the kitchen and Lucy cut us some bread. She laid the slices on a familiar plate, the edge decorated with pansies which years of scrubbing had worn half away to leave the odd, faded, windblown petal and glint of gilt on the stems. Years ago I had eaten a pie off that plate, and even now it was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted.

      We ate now, Lucy breathing noisily, her eyes fixed on the table. No remark, no smile came my way. Finally I took my courage in my hands.

      ‘What’s wrong, Lucy? What have I done? Please tell me.’

      Outside in the garden Pamela chirped like a blackbird in spring. A child used to her own company.

      ‘You’ve been forgetful,’ she said at last. ‘Forgetful of your friends.’

      My mouth fell open. ‘When did I forget you? You were my bridesmaid!’

      ‘Yep, and you dropped me straight afterwards. Didn’t call by, didn’t chat. Months and months. So I assumed –’ she leaned on the word, using my voice to do so ‘– I assumed that it was my pay-off, the bridesmaid job, and Mrs Parr didn’t want anything more to do with poor little Miss Horne and her chest –’ she coughed theatrically ‘– and her teeth and all.’

      Lucy was missing six teeth, many at the front. The teeth were long gone and her gaps were familiar to her friends but all the same she pulled her top lip down to smile, to speak to strangers. And she had coughed every day of her life.

      ‘I invited you to our garden party. You didn’t reply.’

      ‘Oh, yes. Your garden party.’

      She spoke softly, as if to a silly child. I studied my clasped hands in sadness and shame. The invitation had been written on a card: Mr and Mrs Selwyn Parr, At Home. I hadn’t even popped my head round her door to ask her in person. Merely summoned her to mill about on my lawn with tea and cake, as if she were any one of my acquaintances instead of my oldest friend.

      ‘Mrs Parr was happy,’ I said after a while. ‘She wasn’t used to that. It made her clumsy.’ I looked up at her. ‘Lucy, please come and see us. We can bake you a potato, and you can share our parsnip stew. It won’t be as nice as yours, because I can’t cook like your nan. But we’ll spare no effort.’

      She licked her finger and dabbed at the crumbs on the plate, gathering them up. I did the same thing at home after the children had finished. When she spoke her voice was gruff.

      ‘They do say you must forgive newly-weds. Their minds run on one thing. Though in your case it was Greek poems, like as not.’

      ‘Yes, it was. The Iliad. He was teaching me Greek.’

      She burst into a cackle. ‘You pair!’

      I laughed too. ‘It was fun. We’ve got no time for lessons now, of course.’

      ‘How’s it been, Ellen? What you expected?’

      A mariage blanc, Lady Brock had said. Have you heard the expression, my dear?

      The sheets of our marriage bed unfurled, heavy white linen. Is it the French for white wedding, Lady Brock?

       No, my dear, it is not.

      Lucy was gazing at me. How dark her eyes were. In the gloom of the kitchen I could hardly distinguish iris from pupil.

      ‘It’s been exactly as I expected,’ I said after a moment. ‘And I’ve honestly never been more content, Lucy.’

      Pamela was still on the apple tree. The bark was fissured and slippery with moss but she was sure-footed, turning on her toe at the end of each pass. As she walked she raised a scolding finger. ‘No, no, you’re naughty donkeys.’ Her voice carried in the still air. So clear. She would sing well. Selwyn could teach her. She saw me and jumped down immediately, ran to me with her arms open, collided with my midriff. I clung to her and she to me, her arms bound around my waist, her head pillowed on my belly, all her animosity gone. The door creaked and Lucy appeared on the step, her face sallow in the low light. Pamela continued to cling. ‘Ellen,’ she said. ‘Ell.’

      ‘Did the tortoise wake up?’ Lucy called. Pamela buried her face in my skirt.

      ‘Pamela, answer Lucy.’

      Pamela turned her head. ‘No, he didn’t, Lucy-Lou.’ She broke away from me and took Lucy’s hand. ‘Come on, Lou and Ell. Come and see my donkeys. They’re all tied up by the tree trunk.’ Together we went to the apple tree, Lucy and I, with Pamela between us. We pretended to admire the donkeys. There were a great many of them, all with complicated, mutable names. Pamela became lost, happily, in her naming.

      ‘Here’s some news,’ Lucy said. ‘Dan’s home for Christmas.’

      ‘Oh, how splendid!’

      Daniel Corey was a friend from our childhood at Upton School. We hadn’t seen him since the summer when he came home on leave after Dunkirk. Then he was sent away into the east of England, there to transform the flat shoreline into a bulwark against enemy landings. ‘Think of all those concrete blocks,’ I said now. ‘Like giant sugar lumps, all along the beaches. They’ll stop a tank dead.’

      ‘That’s what Dan says.’

      ‘It’s true. Anyway, the Germans can’t bring an army across. Colonel Daventry says they haven’t got the boats.’

      ‘Let’s hope he’s right.’ Lucy stared for a moment into the middle distance. Then she sniffed. ‘Tell you one thing. If those buggers come up the high street, there’ll be trouble if they shoot me dead. I’m the only one who can start that bloomin tractor.’

      I couldn’t help smiling. ‘How is it on the farm?’

      ‘Cold. The dogs, they worked up a good fug.’

      The first proper grin of the old days.

      ‘I was thinking of that pie earlier,’ I found myself saying. ‘The first one I had from your nan. I’ve never forgotten it.’

      ‘Oh, yes. Nan’s flaky pastry.’ Her face softened. ‘You was so perishing hungry.’ She released Pamela’s hand, patting the back of it. ‘I’ve got to get back to that harrow. Stay and play with those donkeys a while, unless you want a lift back to the turning?’

      ‘No, we’ll walk.’

      ‘I’ll say ta-ta, then, Pamela.’ She went off towards the steps. ‘Shut СКАЧАТЬ