Without Sin (37 page)

They’d all be there. All – but her.

The wedding was over and after the briefest of honeymoons Jake left to join the army.

George, shaking the young man’s hand vigorously, could not speak for the huge fear constricting his throat.

Betsy and Mabel wept openly. ‘Do take care,’ they kept repeating, as if convincing themselves that if he kept a sharp eye open he could easily dodge the bullets.

Jake hugged them all in turn, keeping his last tender kiss for his young bride. ‘I’m no great letter writer, Betsy, but I’ll do mi best. Will you do something for
me?’

Mute with misery, she nodded.

‘Go and see Miss Pendleton now and again. Let her know how I’m faring.’

‘Miss Pendleton? Matron?’ Betsy was startled.

‘Yes. She’s always been good to me. She was the nearest I had to a mam before I came to live here at the farm.’

‘But, but they used to beat you—’

Firmly, Jake shook his head. ‘She didn’t. He did, but not her. Never her. If truth be known, she saved me from him several times.’

‘Did she?’

Jake nodded. ‘But then, she liked the little boys, didn’t she?’

‘Mm,’ Betsy said slowly, remembering how it had been. ‘But she always seemed to like you best.’

‘Don’t come to see me off. I want to think of you all here.’ And so the Smallwoods and Betsy went on with their daily routine about the farm, trying not to think about Jake
joining the line of marching men on their way to the station.

The streets of South Monkford were lined with cheering, flag-waving folk. As they passed, Jake glanced towards the tailor’s shop and fancied he saw a glimpse of Meg beyond the shadowy
window. But she did not come to the doorway to wave him goodbye.

Her smile would live only in his memory.

Inside the shop, standing in the shadows, Meg bit her fingernail down to the quick. He was going. Jake was going to the war. Meg had never felt so terrified in her life. If he
was killed and she never had a chance to tell him . . .

Letitia Pendleton was waiting near the station. She pushed her way through the throng and grabbed Jake’s arm, trying to pull him away from the lines of marching men.

‘Don’t go, Jake. You don’t have to. Don’t go.’

Gently, he tried to prise her clinging hands away, but she held on tightly.

‘I have to, Miss Pendleton. I’ve enlisted. I’d be put in prison if I don’t go now. Besides, I want to. It’s my duty and I’ll be called up soon enough
anyway.’

Letitia sobbed. ‘But – I – I might never see you again. And I’ve never told you . . .’

They’d reached the entrance to the station and the formal lines of marching men had broken up.

Jake stopped and turned to face her, smiling down at her. ‘I know I’ve always been one of your favourites.’

Letitia was sobbing uncontrollably, her arms trying to enfold him. ‘It’s more than that. Jake, there’s something you should know. Something I
want
you to
know.’

‘I have to go, Miss Pendleton. They’re all getting on the train now.’

He planted a kiss on her round cheek, wet with tears. ‘When I come back,’ he promised, ‘I’ll come and see you.’

He pulled away from her and marched purposefully towards the station entrance and in through the archway.

‘Jake . . . Jake . . .’ Her cry followed him, echoing eerily. ‘Don’t go. I have to tell you . . .’

He marched on and, if she said more, Jake did not hear it.

The war dragged on through 1916. The people of South Monkford scoured the casualty lists in the local paper and those with menfolk at the Front waited fearfully for the dreaded
telegram.

Philip Collins enlisted, and whilst he tried to reassure his wife that in his work as a medical officer he would be comparatively safe, Louisa was not convinced.

‘I know you. You’ll be right there near the Front. In a field hospital.’

He could not deny the probability. Louisa clung to him and whispered against his neck, ‘And I don’t even have a child to remember you by.’

It was a great source of sadness to them both that they had not been blessed, as yet, with children.

‘When I come back, it’ll be different. I promise you.’ But Louisa would not be comforted.

Philip battled in the days before his departure against saying goodbye to Meg. He couldn’t get her out of his mind and the thought that he might never see her again drove him finally,
against his better judgement, to visit her.

He decided to call at the shop so Percy would be there too. That way he would not be alone with her. But when he opened the door and stepped inside, the shop was empty. Percy must be here alone,
Philip thought, moving towards the back room. But as he stepped inside it was Meg who raised her eyes from sewing buttons on an almost completed jacket.

‘Philip!’ she cried and jumped up at once. Scarcely realizing what he was doing, Philip held out his arms and she ran into them. He held her close, his face against her hair,
breathing in the scent of her.

‘Oh, Philip, you’re going too, aren’t you? Jake’s gone and now you.’ She was weeping against him and then he was kissing her; her forehead, her eyes and lastly, her
mouth. She returned his kiss, clinging to him, pressing herself against him.

‘Oh, Meg, Meg,’ he was saying over and over. His kisses, passionate and yet poignant, awakened something in her that Meg had not known existed. This was real desire, this was
passion. What she was suddenly feeling was totally different to her affection for Percy. And oh, how different it would be to be made love to by this handsome man with his broad shoulders and lithe
body.

‘Philip,’ she gasped and drew him into the room.

What might have happened then had the shop doorbell not clanged warningly, Philip dared not think. Only later was he grateful that at that moment Percy had returned to the shop. Philip and Meg
sprang apart, gazing breathlessly at each other until Meg smoothed her hair and opened the door.

‘Percy,’ she said with amazing calm, ‘I’m so glad you’re back. Dr Collins has called to say goodbye.’

If the doctor appeared dazed and slightly incoherent, Percy put it down to the young man’s trepidation at what awaited him.

‘Good luck, Doctor.’ Percy shook Philip’s hand, noticing its clammy feel. ‘Come back to us safe and sound, won’t you?’

Philip gulped and backed out of the shop. ‘Yes, yes, thank you. Er – thank you, goodbye.’

‘Oh dear,’ Percy remarked, shaking his head sadly. ‘He’s terribly afraid of what might happen, isn’t he?’

‘Mm,’ Meg agreed absently. She was not thinking of what might happen to Philip at the Front, but of what might happen when he came home again.

Jake had served almost a year in France when he received a wound that brought him back home. His knee was badly smashed and, whilst he would recover, he would forever walk with
a stiff leg.

Whilst she hated the fact that Jake had been wounded, Betsy was ecstatic that, for him, the war was over.

‘Did you see Dr Collins? Did he look after you in the hospital?’

Jake smiled indulgently at Betsy’s naivety. ‘No, love, I didn’t see him. I ’spect he was in a different place to me.’

‘Oh.’ She was disappointed and then a worried frown creased her forehead. Now that her Jake was home, she could spare a thought for the safety of others. ‘I hope he’s all
right.’

Meg too was thankful to hear that Jake had survived. She longed to see him, but the past kept them apart. Instead, she thought dreamily of the time that Philip would come home. And then,
suddenly, miraculously, on the same day that the United States entered the war, Philip too was invalided out of the army. He had been caught in a gas attack and was considered no longer fit enough
to undertake the onerous duties of a field hospital doctor.

‘It’s not as bad as they’re making out,’ he told Louisa. ‘It’s just affected my lungs, but I hope they’ll improve – given time.’ He tried to
smile.

‘Oh, Philip, you’re not going back, are you? You’ve done your bit. More than your bit.’

He raised her hand to his lips. ‘No, my dear. I’m back home now, but I’ll soon be well enough to care for all my old patients here.’

And whilst he would never be quite as fit as he had been before the war, Dr Collins was soon riding round the town again in his pony and trap and calling on all his old friends.

But there was one place he did not dare to call. Though he thought of her often – every day – he did not call to see Meg.

By October 1918 the worldwide influenza epidemic had reached Britain and South Monkford. Dr Collins, still not completely fit himself, worked day and night to care for his
patients. And just when the worst appeared to be over in the town Percy Rodwell succumbed.

‘Get to bed at once,’ Meg told him. ‘And I’ll fetch the doctor.’

‘Don’t worry the poor man,’ Percy murmured, holding onto the counter to keep himself upright.

Meg held a cool hand to his forehead. ‘You’re burning up, Percy. Go straight home and get into bed. I’ll close the shop early and go to the surgery. Maybe there’s
something he can prescribe.’

The front hall at the doctor’s home, which served as a waiting room, was crowded. Louisa drew Meg through into their private quarters at the rear of the house. ‘If you don’t
mind coming into the kitchen,’ she whispered as she led the way, ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea, though I’ll have to keep answering the front door.’

‘Of course,’ Meg said. ‘But you mustn’t bother about me, Louisa. You’ve enough to do.’

Louisa smiled. ‘If I can’t make a cup of tea for a friend, then it’s a pity. Besides, I’m ready for one. I’ve been on my feet for two hours answering that door and
placating frustrated patients.’

‘I really can’t stay long, though,’ Meg said, peeling off her gloves and sitting down at the table whilst Louisa bustled about the kitchen, though still alert for the sound of
the front-door bell. ‘I’ve sent Percy home to bed. He’s got this dreadful influenza. He looks terrible.’

‘Oh dear.’ Louisa turned sympathetic eyes on her friend. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m sure Philip will visit him. It might be quite late, though.’

Meg shook her head. ‘Percy doesn’t want to trouble him. I’ve just come to see if Philip can give me something for him. That’s all.’

‘Here’s your tea. I’ll just slip in to see him between patients and ask, shall I? It’ll save you waiting if you want to get back to Percy. Excuse me a moment.’

When Louisa had left the room, Meg looked about her. The kitchen was large, yet still cosy. Louisa was obviously the perfect housewife. The smell of freshly baked bread lingered in the air and
judging by the remnants of their evening meal, taken before Philip started evening surgery, she was also an excellent cook. The house was vast, and though Meg had only seen Philip’s surgery,
their private sitting room and the kitchen, she imagined that all the other rooms were just as spacious and well furnished.

A sudden wave of envy swept through her. Why should Louisa have all this whilst she, Meg, lived in a poky little house with an old man as her husband? Once Percy had seemed a ‘good
catch’ – a well-respected businessman in the town with his own shop and house. But then she had found that he didn’t own the shop and that, whilst the townsfolk patronized it, he
was nevertheless something of a figure of fun. Meg sighed. Now why couldn’t she have captured someone like Philip? He was handsome as well as clever and he was revered in the community,
whereas she feared that since the court case folk were secretly sniggering about Percy and his child bride. Why, why, why . . .

Louisa came hurrying back into the room. ‘Philip says you’re not to wait. Go home and he’ll come and visit after surgery.’

Meg pushed away her envious thoughts and tried to smile, though it did not reach her eyes. Louisa, however, misinterpreted the shadow in her eyes as concern about Percy. She touched Meg’s
arm. ‘Philip will come as soon as he can, my dear.’

When Meg arrived home, Percy had got into bed, but he was shivering uncontrollably. She stood by the bed looking down at him dispassionately. Lying there, his eyes closed, Percy looked gaunt and
sickly. The ruthless thought crept its way unbidden into her mind.
If he dies, I’ll be left this house and the business . . .

‘Water,’ he whispered through cracked lips. ‘Please . . .’ Ill though he was, Percy Rodwell was the epitome of politeness.

Meg smiled and laid her cool hand on his forehead. ‘Philip’s on his way to see you. He’ll tell me what I should do. But first I’ll light the bedroom fire. It’s so
cold in here. That can’t be good for you. And I’ll heat a brick . . .’

When she had been ill as a child, Meg remembered her mother heating a brick in the oven, wrapping it in a piece of cloth and placing it in the bed at her feet. She remembered feeling cosseted
and loved by that one simple action.

By the time Philip, heavy eyed and grey with weariness, arrived, a cheerful fire was burning in the bedroom grate.

‘He asked for water,’ Meg said as she led the way upstairs, lifting her skirts daintily, ‘but I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do.’

‘Yes, plenty of fluids. He must drink plenty, but hot drinks would be even better.’

She opened the bedroom door and ushered the doctor inside. As he stepped past her into the room, his arm brushed her breast. He paused a moment and looked down at her. Their eyes met and locked
in an intense gaze. She heard him sigh as he dragged himself away and into the room.

‘I – I’ll get that drink for him now,’ she murmured. ‘And I’ll make you something.’

Without waiting for him to argue, she closed the bedroom door and went down the narrow stairs. She heated milk and poured it out into two cups. Then in each one she put brown sugar and whisky.
She carried one through to the front sitting room and placed it on a small table by the sofa. Then she poked the fire, making the flames dance and spark. She turned the gaslights down low so that
the room was lit by the glow from the fire. Then she returned to the kitchen and carried the other cup of milk up to the bedroom.

‘I’ve put a drop of whisky in it. Is that all right?’