CHAPTER 19 (pt 1)

It was a three mile walk back to the farm; Claire left shortly after four in the afternoon, hoping to keep up with the last of the day’s light. I should’ve taken the horse and wagon, that’s what I should’ve done, she told herself, switching hands as the handles of the cloth bag she was carrying cut the circulation off, turning her fingers blue. The knives became heavier as she carried them, but it was never any bother as far as she was concerned. I’d rather be weighed down with the knives, than a dust rag, she told herself. Life for women in this day and age didn’t leave one with a lot of options, she knew, and being a cook in one of the big Manor houses was the best a woman could hope for.

Being my own woman is better, she reminded herself, going over a mental checklist of what she needed to do for the morning’s pies.

If the sun wasn’t down by the time she reached home, it soon would be, she reminded herself, and with any luck, Reggie would be there to greet her. The sky was a clear blue, but fading, and although there were heavy clouds skirting along the horizon, they posed no threat, even if they looked dark and foreboding in the distance. She could feel the cold seeping across the dirt track they called a lane out this way, and picked up the pace, hoping a brisk walk would help stave off the chill. She could see mist laying across the fields, looking almost as if it were a blanket, and hoped it didn’t mean fog. It would be difficult enough once the sun went down, when the only light she’d have would be a slip of the moon and whatever starlight there was. Fog could make it more difficult considering the farmhouse was set back from the lane and hidden behind a small copse of trees.

She made it to the farm with dusk settling across the landscape, the clouds on the horizon lined with colours of gold and grey.; the hedgerows looking more like stone walls put up by ancient tribes. Standing on a small block of wood she searched the ledge over the doorjamb, finally finding the key and fitting it into the lock. The house was cold and dark, and she was quick to put her bag on the table, lighting the lamp in the middle of it. She turned the flame up and looked at the mess she’d left in her haste to reach Marlborough. It was never-ending, she told herself. She needed help, but had always been reluctant to ask Reggie; it was enough he tended to his own chores. She took off the long coat she was wearing and hung it on the hook behind the door, then found her apron and wrapped it around herself out of habit.

She bent over the stove, pulling the embers forward and scooping them out, dropping them into the bin. With the embers gone, she began breaking small pieces of kindling to start a fire. In no time at all she had a fire going and put the kettle on to make herself a cup of tea. She filled the wash basin with assorted dishes, pots and pans, placing it on the stove before filling a large pot with water from the hand pump Reggie put in after having moved in. She doubted he’d put it in himself, but would never admit such a thing to him.

She thought it strange that Reggie hadn’t returned from London yet, but thought nothing of it for the moment. He could’ve been held up for any number of reasons, and now wasn’t the time to fret, she told herself.

It took almost an hour for her to clean the kitchen the way she wanted it. The pots and pans were scoured and properly seasoned before she put them in their proper place, hanging from hooks above the stove where they were easily accessible. She’d had over two dozen pie tins to wash and a dozen more loaf pans; assorted bowls, spoons, and knives; plates and platters.

When she was done, she took a small wooden bowl out from the cupboard under the counter, measured yeast into it, sugar, then poured warm water into it. Satisfied, she reached for a larger bowl, filling it with flour, salt, pepper, a splash of milk, then cracking three eggs into it before adding the proofed yeast. In no time she had a mound of dough out on the counter and began kneading it, returning it to the bowl and putting it to the side where it would rise overnight and be ready for the morning.

And who doesn’t like a loaf of fresh baked bread? she asked herself.

She rolled a cigarette, lighting it with the lantern on the table, letting her mind wander back to Marlborough Manor, all the while wondering how Artie was planning to reach the skull. She’d seen it plain as day—they both had, her and the American singer—and while they both stood quietly looking at it, Claire wondered if the woman was planning to somehow claim it.

Stranger things have happened, she told herself, and one of the strangest things was Artie breaking into Bedloe Manor and stealing that violin. Why he’d decided to take it, she had no idea—except that it involved a certain gangster Reggie was familiar with. She remembered the night when Artie asked Reggie to take the violin into London for him. As much as she’d tried talking Reggie out of it, she knew better than to push him too far. She’d overheard Artie telling Reggie that he planned to return to Bedloe Manor later with the horse. Once he’d ingratiated himself with the family—and he reminded Reggie that his father had gone to school with Geurnsey—but once he’d ingratiated himself to the family, he’d be free to pick and choose from whatever art treasures he felt he’d be able to resell later, in London. But first, he needed Reggie to do this one favour for him, and then they’d be squared as far as the past was concerned.

She didn’t know what Reggie owed him, and though she’d wondered briefly, again, she knew better than to ask too many questions. As much as she loved Reggie, theirs was a relationship of limitations, she told herself; those limitations being his temper. She also told herself that those occasions when he’d hit her had been well-deserved. She’d pushed him too far, and he’d simply reacted out of instinct. He was a man who understood the nature of violence he said, and though he swore he’d never be violent toward her, he’d failed to live up to that promise, hadn’t he—several times.

The problem was that she believed him. She’d believed in him as much as she’d wanted to believe in David, the man she’d hoped to marry and start a family with before the War. And how many women like her had suffered through the same loss, she wondered? How many men had gone off to War in those early months, never to return? Men like Reggie and Artie had proven themselves resilient though, hadn’t they? They had scars—Reggie’s chest was a roadmap of scars—but they also had nightmare memories. Reggie’s scars ran deeper than those she saw scratched into his chest, she knew. His came from childhood, and life on London’s streets.

She knew he’d run with a bad crowd, but not to what extent. It was something they never discussed. The one thing she did know about Reggie was that he’d refused to let himself have children. What kind of man doesn’t allow himself to have children? He’d said this world was no place to raise kids, and while she understood his reasoning, it was never something she’d agreed to.

A woman needs children in her life—even if it’s only one.

She wondered if it was true, or only true for her. She lifted the burner plate off the stove and tossed her cigarette into it, then added three lumps of coal to the flames to help make it through to the morning, telling herself it was time to go to bed. She filled a pot of water and put it on the stove for the morning.