28 July 1944
The summer sun beat down fiercely; the heat clung to the lane like a heavy shawl. I, Simon Clarke, trudged away from the village coach stop, a battered leather satchel slung over my shoulder, packed with the modest belongings of a secondyear farmhand. My clothes were a cheap work jumpsuit the few pounds Id earned myself by shovelling grain from wagons for a week or two, enough to buy a new coat for my mother and a few comforts for my sisters.
I passed the old village hall and turned onto the lane that led to my parents cottage. At the gate a neighbour, Mrs. Margaret Hargreaves, stood waiting, her grey hair fluttering in the breeze. She stared at me so intently it felt as though she were peering straight into my soul.
Good afternoon, Mrs Hargreaves! I called.
Good day, Simon, she replied, her voice as soft as an autumn rustle. She watched me all the way to the birch trees that framed the front garden.
My boy! shouted my mother, wrapping me in a tight hug. My younger sister, tenyearold Emily, bounced over, and my grandmother shuffled forward, eyes shining. Look how youve grown, my son!
Mother, we just met a month ago before the exams! I laughed, hoisting Emily onto my arm. She squealed with delight.
Has everything been settled? she asked.
Yes, Im now in my third year, and the scholarships still coming in! I declared proudly.
Handsome lad! Grandma praised, patting my head.
Im not a baby any more, Grandma, I blushed, pulling a small parcel from my bag. Wheres Father? I asked, showing her the delicate brooch Id bought.
Off at the mill, of course, Mother said, admiring the trinket. Thanks, love.
Emily twirled before the mirror, admiring a new cardigan. Look, Auntie, isnt it lovely? All the girls at school will be jealous.
Everyones pleased, Grandma said, wrapping herself in a fresh woollen scarf.
We all gathered around the table for dinner. The conversation was lively, laughter spilling over as we shared news. Suddenly I grew thoughtful.
Mum, I asked, why does Mrs Hargreaves keep watching me? Wherever I go shes at the gate, eyes never leaving me. She didnt even know I was coming back, yet it feels as though shed been waiting.
Your grandma will tell you better than I can, Mother whispered.
Its because you look a lot like your father, and he looked a lot like his own father. Mrs Hargreaves loved your grandfather dearly, the old woman said, gazing off into the distance.
We built this house together, the whole village, long ago. Thats where we first met the neighbours: a young couple, Betty and Tom. They helped each other, became close friends.
Betty married very young, just eighteen. Shed grown up without parents; her aunt raised her, but as a servant from the age of ten. She kept the house tidy, cooked, tended the aunts children while the aunt worked, and barely attended school. The aunt was harsh, beating Betty for the slightest fault. Once I saw a scar on Bettys arm.
Whats that? I asked.
Its from when I tried to drive a cow out of the garden and it knocked me, she replied, wiping the old wound.
She told me how shed once begged her mother at the local cemetery to take her in, only to be savagely beaten by the aunt for two days straight.
Bettys aunt had married a man who later died in the war, leaving Betty an orphan. She married Tom out of convenience, not love, and gave away the family home. Betty, now a spinster, was handed over to Tom, who was ten years older, welloff, and owned a respectable farm. The house still stands, and Mrs Hargreaves lives there, tending the land, though nobody ever asked what Betty herself wanted.
The aunt told Betty she must choose a husband wisely, but an eighteenyearold orphan had little choice she married Tom.
Mrs Hargreaves, though a good housekeeper, never loved her husband. He only admired her youth and beauty.
Dont think of her as a fragile old thing now, my mother warned me, she was once a stunning young woman tall, slender, blueeyed, chestnut hair braided down to her waist. Men used to adore her.
Id often seen bruises on her. Is that Tom? Id ask, but shed stay silent, her blue eyes holding unspoken sorrow.
My father, Arthur, had left for the front a year after his son Peter was born. We saw him off with the whole village. I still remember standing on the platform, the train about to pull away, unable to let go of his hand. His dark hair, brown eyes, and steadfast stare are etched in my memory. When we said goodbye, his eyes turned as black as night from the weight of impending separation.
Women ran after the train mothers, wives, lovers as it disappeared. Arthurs brother, Tom, never went to the front; he feigned an illness and claimed he was unfit for service.
Before leaving, Arthur planted the birches by the garden, promising, Ill return, my dear, with you and Peter. Ill even have a daughter just like you. He urged us to look after each other.
I waited. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and still no word. We held onto hope that he would come back.
Betty walked with me to the station to see Arthur off. She stood off to the side, tears in her eyes, but she never cried aloud, perhaps fearing judgement. In the carriage, she fell to her knees and whispered, Forgive me, neighbour, but I love your husband. I cannot live without him.
What about Tom? I asked, knowing the two could never be together.
Hes my husband. I cannot escape him. She sobbed, I only want to know if hes alive, if hes happy. Why must my life be so restless?
We both wept, sitting on the grass for a long while, the sorrow somehow easing a little.
Later, letters began to arrive. The war stayed away from our part of the country, and we tended the fields, harvested, and tried to live as normally as possible. When a letter was due from Arthur, Betty would rush to the postwoman, old Mrs. Valentina, and beg, Please, just let me hold the letter, even for a moment.
Mrs. Valentina, who had been delivering mail across the village for decades, would stare at her sternly, It isnt yours, miss. Its for your husbands wife.
Betty, eyes wet, persisted, Im not a stranger. I just need to see his handwriting.
Finally, with a sigh, Mrs. Valentina handed the folded envelope, warning, Dont let the tears smear it.
Betty clutched it to her chest and waited for the postwoman to return.
Did you hear that, Simon? I asked her later.
No, she whispered. I felt it the moment the letter should have arrived.
Arthur, after the war, became a police constable, patrolling the lanes, while Betty rarely left her gate, ashamed, trying to become invisible. She prayed for forgiveness from a man who had become cruel, and the only solace she found were the letters.
I wondered whether I could have rescued her, whether I had any right to intervene. The answer never came.
Months passed without news. I kept waking each morning hoping for a post, hearing the rustle of the newspaper as the only sound. Peter, now two, began to babble, Daddy, Daddy! I would tell him, Daddy will write soon. He would giggle, Daddy!
One day, Tom disappeared from the village, never to be seen again. Betty stayed alone, often lingering at the gate, staring down the road.
Betty, what are you looking at? I tried to lighten the mood. She stared back with eyes as blue as winter sky, her face gaunt, as if frost had settled upon her.
I cant see, she muttered. I cant see anything.
Later, under the scorching July sun, she sat beneath the old apple tree in my yard.
Sit down, Gillian, she said calmly, as if she knew what she meant.
Not now, I replied, the carrots need pulling after the rain.
You wont pull them today, nor tomorrow, she sighed, and with that empty gaze she made me sit on the bench, apologising.
Mrs. Valentina entered, her bag now weighing a hundred pounds, and handed me a small envelope.
I opened it, the first words trembling on the page: Your husband has died heroically Tears blurred the rest. Bettys consciousness slipped; she was rushed to the infirmary. It turned out she was pregnant when Tom abandoned her.
Three months later she gave birth to a boy we named Nicholas. She told me shed named him after the man who had loved her in the only way she could understand.
The pain never left; it hid somewhere deep, as my mother later whispered, placing her hand over her heart. The days felt heavy, but the wind would sometimes blow gently, reminding me of Arthurs voice.
One evening I stepped out, inhaled the fresh air, and heard someone walking beyond the fence. It was Betty, sitting on the same bench, the house empty around her. We sat together in silence, each lost in our own thoughts, yet the shared grief made the solitude a little less sharp.
At last a letter arrived, though I didnt expect it. Inside was Arthurs final words, written before he fell.
Dearest Gillian,
I know I sent you a letter just yesterday, yet today I feel compelled to write again. My heart aches to be home, to hold you and our son, to sit beneath our apple tree and share an apple. I think of you every moment whether you are in the garden alone, or cradling our child, or singing to him about our grey cat. How I miss you!
I look in the mirror and barely recognise myself a beard, a wild look, hardly any time to shave. I dream of our home, of you with our son, of the birches I planted, of the river beyond. I wake smiling, yet reality is empty.
Sometimes I see you, my sweet Gillian, wandering with a restless soul, tears washing your face. I beg you, my love, let her soul be at peace, dont cling to my memory. I love you still, now and forever.
Always,
Arthur
I held the letter, its paper trembling in my hands. My mother stared out the window, tears tracing her cheeks. Emily and little Evelyn sat quietly beside us.
When I read the date, my breath caught it was the day Arthur was reported missing, struck down by enemy fire. Betty wept for hours as we read the words together.
She later gave birth to Nicholas, and my heart finally eased.
Now the village moves on. Neither Betty nor I ever married again. Yet I know Arthur is still with us in the wind that rustles the birch leaves, in the warm sunlight on the garden fence, in the smile of my son.
As I walk past the old birches, their leaves whisper, Love does not age, it never dies.
I have learned that even when people linger as memories, their love can still guide us, and that holding onto grief only binds us to the past. Letting go, however painful, frees the soul to cherish what truly matters.
