This is the third part of the first chapter. You can read the second part here.
The next morning dawned bright and clear, with the crispness of May in England.
K was already awake when C woke up. In fact K had not slept all night. The wounds Mrs. Finnegan had inflicted were painful enough, but it was the mental scars that hurt the most.
There were no sounds coming from downstairs. C prayed silently that a V2 had hit the house in the night and taken Mrs. Finnegan with it, leaving them safe. But in her heart she knew that God would never deliver justice with such a crude instrument. No, Mrs. Finnegan’s day of judgement would come. But C prayed that it might be today.
Then, quietly at first, a humming sound approached the house. It was Mrs. Finnegan. She was still alive, after all.
Downstairs the sound of a door slamming shut sent shivers through both girls, as they expected a repeat of the previous night’s brutality. They could hear Mrs. Finnegan pottering about and making noises for what seemed like an eternity. Perhaps she had forgotten they were there.
Footsteps on the stairs. She was climbing them fast. She was coming for them. As C cowered in the bed K took up a position standing over her, protecting her little sister, no matter the cost.
The door opened.
The sight of Mrs. Finnegan chilled K to the bone. She was smiling at the girls, carrying a tray of breakfast.
“Come on now, lazy heads! Time to be up and having breakfast. You have to go to the local school this morning. Here, have this first and then get dressed and come downstairs. Bring the plates and tray back with you.”
Turning without a word, she walked quietly out of the bedroom, humming gently.
It was a trap. It must be. A cruel trick to get the girls to leave the safety of the bedroom.
The humming continued, but it was clearly downstairs, probably in the kitchen. Mrs. F. wasn’t waiting outside the door to get them. She was downstairs.
Trembling, with fear as much as with hunger, the girls reached out for the breakfast. It was a simple meal of a boiled egg each and 1 slice of toast. But to two, frightened and hungry girls it signalled a form of sanctuary. In their hunger the breakfast only lasted a couple of moments.
Cleaning up the crumbs as best they could, the girls collected the plates together and went downstairs. K was in the lead and C followed like a little lamb behind its mother. Neither girl dared speak. Neither girl dared make any noise.
“Bless you girls, that’s saved my old bones another trip up the stairs. Just put the plates over there. I’ll see to them when I get back. Now, let’s get you to the school.”
The rest of the day was a blur of memories. Being paraded in front of one teacher after another, reciting personal details to anyone who asked, each class being another gauntlet run of the jibes of the ‘girls with the funny voices’. But it felt more like normality than the night before and by the end of the day the girls had begun to relax a little.
As they walked back to the farmhouse neither girl spoke. Neither girl wanted to break the silence. To break the silence would be to admit that the previous night had not been a bad dream. But at least it seemed to be over.
The smell of cooking wafted through the door as they walked in, to see Mrs. Finnegan stirring various pots. The shortages of war were not being felt as severely here, as they were at home.
After the meal there was even a pudding, of sorts. A few slices of bread, cooked in milk – a luxury! – with some dried raisins. There was sweetness there, which made the simple meal feel more like a feast. The felling of full stomachs caused the girls to become drowsy and they nodded off on the couch.
……
“So she kept her secret for 40 years, because she thought we’d all be ashamed of her.”
It was hard to take in what I’d just heard. A bit of a shock, really. In so many ways I wish they hadn’t told me. But once the genie is out of the bottle it’s too late.
And it was late. Exhausted by the events of the day I could only stay awake for a little while longer. Sleep came in fits and starts and was interrupted with dreams. Perhaps our dreams are real life and what we think is waking is actually the real dream. Who knows?
What I knew was that my past was unravelling in front of me and re-forming, just like every cheap time-travel movie shows at some point when an event changes the future. Who we are is made up of so many things. But if the fundamental thing alters, can you ever say you’re really you again?
The next morning was just more activity. Why is there so much to do when someone dies? We rarely focus that much time and energy on anyone when they’re alive, but death has a way of making time revolve around them.
Inevitably there were lots of phone calls to make. People to invite to the funeral service, vicars to talk to, funeral arrangements to make. Very professional and sympathetic, funeral directors, but how do you look someone in the eye when selling them a coffin for their dead realative is how you make your living?
The body – what a cold and impersonal phrase – would be in the funeral chapel of rest later that day. We would be able to visit in the late afternoon.
I was the only one who felt at peace visiting her dead body. The others couldn’t face the prospect. S couldn’t even talk about it. But then she’d been the one who’d done all the caring. As a medical professional she had the skills, but it was obvious that it had taken its toll on her. Truth be told we were all glad it wasn’t us who had to do the caring. And S must have been very close to the edge of a nervous breakdown by this time. In fact it’s hard to say that she hadn’t tipped over.
When I visited the chapel of rest to view her body I was slightly apprehensive. Would I be scared? I didn’t know, but I wanted to see her.
Not as bad as I thought, actually. In fact, she looked like she’d just been caught mid-snore while she was sleeping. I only stayed a few minutes, talking to her with the knowledge of what she’d told the others. Her hands were very cold – of course – but I held them, just the same. I think it’s the deathly cold that strikes you about a dead body. It’s a cold beyond cold. An emptiness. I wonder if space feels like that?
When I got back to her house I heard raised voices. Anger was rearing its head.
“What’s going on?”, I asked.
