quickening her pace again and throwing her handful of leaves away, “why don’t you go back and tell Mary t’come up to ours. An’ tell Bethan to go over t’The Firs. She can take care of Tudor an’ Emma so Menna can come over too. Actually, you’d better go to Menna first, let her know. Gently, mind.”
“And what are you going t’do?” Sarah asked.
“I’m going down to t’The Court. See if Reg and the boys arethere,” Maggie answered. “An’ then I’m going to milk those bloody cows,” she added, striding on, leaving Sarah standing in the middle of the track.
A magpie, disturbed by Maggie, flew from a tree leaning over the track ahead of her. “One for sorrow,” Sarah thought, hearing her mother’s voice again. She looked around for the second bird that would make that curse a blessing. But it wasn’t there. And once Maggie had rounded the bend in the track, neither was anything else.
That had been over an hour ago. And now here they were, the four of them, sitting around Maggie’s kitchen table listening to her as she explained to Menna once more that their husbands might be gone for a while. For more than just a day. They’d tried the wireless, but it hadn’t told them anything. The fighting in the south continued. The Allied forces were resisting the German counterattack. The population along the south coast had been evacuated north. America had pledged more reinforcements, but the U-boats in the Atlantic were sinking two ships out of every three. Japan was making advances in the Pacific. And then the signal had gone, fuzzed and whined out into static as it so often did, blunted by the hills that surrounded them.
“So what d’we do?” Mary asked when Maggie had finished. Menna’s eyes had begun to fill and Mary’s voice had a different, harder tone to it. One Sarah hadn’t heard before.
“Well, carry on, I suppose,” Maggie said. “Tha’s all we can do, isn’t it? Carry on, keep everything going.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Menna said, her voice thick with suppressed tears and muffled under the handkerchief she held over her mouth. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
Maggie put a hand on her shoulder but carried on talking to Mary. “I don’t know about The Court, though.”
When Maggie had gone to call on Reg and his boys at Olchon Court she’d found the morning’s pattern complete. Reg had no wife to leave behind, so Maggie had simply found the old house empty.The Court sat a mile or so further down the valley’s western wall than Maggie’s farm. It was a square, solid building, a fourteenth-century fortified farmhouse with walls several feet thick and initials carved into its pitted beams by boys over seven hundred years dead. Reg Powell had inherited it from a long line of fathers and sons. When his wife died he carried on living at The Court with his own two boys, Malcolm and John. Malcolm had been born with a club foot, so, given The Court’s large acreage, John had been allowed to stay to help his father run the farm. But this morning Maggie had found the place deserted, the sun flashing off the diamond-shaped panes in the higher windows and the chickens roaming the lawn, picking at the flowerbeds. It was The Court that made her sure. Every man in the valley had gone. Last night there were seven of them here. With their pipes and their cigarettes, with their caps, their boots, their rare laughter, their wind-weathered faces, and their earth-hardened hands. But this morning there were none. It was as if the valley had experienced its very own Passover and they, the women, had somehow been left untouched by whatever dark angel had visited in the night and taken their men.
“We can’t cope with everything on our own. There’s no way.” Mary was hardening against Maggie’s assumed authority.
“Yes we can,” Maggie said. “Of course we can. The dipping’s done, isn’t it?”
“And it won’t be for long,” Sarah said.
The two older women looked
“And what are you going t’do?” Sarah asked.
“I’m going down to t’The Court. See if Reg and the boys arethere,” Maggie answered. “An’ then I’m going to milk those bloody cows,” she added, striding on, leaving Sarah standing in the middle of the track.
A magpie, disturbed by Maggie, flew from a tree leaning over the track ahead of her. “One for sorrow,” Sarah thought, hearing her mother’s voice again. She looked around for the second bird that would make that curse a blessing. But it wasn’t there. And once Maggie had rounded the bend in the track, neither was anything else.
That had been over an hour ago. And now here they were, the four of them, sitting around Maggie’s kitchen table listening to her as she explained to Menna once more that their husbands might be gone for a while. For more than just a day. They’d tried the wireless, but it hadn’t told them anything. The fighting in the south continued. The Allied forces were resisting the German counterattack. The population along the south coast had been evacuated north. America had pledged more reinforcements, but the U-boats in the Atlantic were sinking two ships out of every three. Japan was making advances in the Pacific. And then the signal had gone, fuzzed and whined out into static as it so often did, blunted by the hills that surrounded them.
“So what d’we do?” Mary asked when Maggie had finished. Menna’s eyes had begun to fill and Mary’s voice had a different, harder tone to it. One Sarah hadn’t heard before.
“Well, carry on, I suppose,” Maggie said. “Tha’s all we can do, isn’t it? Carry on, keep everything going.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Menna said, her voice thick with suppressed tears and muffled under the handkerchief she held over her mouth. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
Maggie put a hand on her shoulder but carried on talking to Mary. “I don’t know about The Court, though.”
When Maggie had gone to call on Reg and his boys at Olchon Court she’d found the morning’s pattern complete. Reg had no wife to leave behind, so Maggie had simply found the old house empty.The Court sat a mile or so further down the valley’s western wall than Maggie’s farm. It was a square, solid building, a fourteenth-century fortified farmhouse with walls several feet thick and initials carved into its pitted beams by boys over seven hundred years dead. Reg Powell had inherited it from a long line of fathers and sons. When his wife died he carried on living at The Court with his own two boys, Malcolm and John. Malcolm had been born with a club foot, so, given The Court’s large acreage, John had been allowed to stay to help his father run the farm. But this morning Maggie had found the place deserted, the sun flashing off the diamond-shaped panes in the higher windows and the chickens roaming the lawn, picking at the flowerbeds. It was The Court that made her sure. Every man in the valley had gone. Last night there were seven of them here. With their pipes and their cigarettes, with their caps, their boots, their rare laughter, their wind-weathered faces, and their earth-hardened hands. But this morning there were none. It was as if the valley had experienced its very own Passover and they, the women, had somehow been left untouched by whatever dark angel had visited in the night and taken their men.
“We can’t cope with everything on our own. There’s no way.” Mary was hardening against Maggie’s assumed authority.
“Yes we can,” Maggie said. “Of course we can. The dipping’s done, isn’t it?”
“And it won’t be for long,” Sarah said.
The two older women looked
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