She rested her head on her outstretched arm. She’d accepted Douglas’ proposal to spite her mother. She’d been forced into marriage for her sin; for her sin her brother and father had died, and for her sin again, Fagus had been crippled into half-life. But Douglas had brought with him a gift. With the devil had come the keys to salvation.

There was only one way out. The dreams she’d had. The horror. Fagus hanging by his feet from the giant cedar in the park of Inveraray, Ivar dancing beneath him, her father twisting in pain as his guts spilled out onto the grass, her mother raised on a plinth and turned to stone; Joan, mute and death-like, picking daisies on the lawn.

“Take this sin from him.”

When her breathing had stilled she put him back to bed.

She went quietly down to the kitchen and filled the kettle. Everett was off getting a leg of lamb from the butcher. Mary had taken Finetta out in the pram. It was all going so well. Fagus wasn’t making improvements but she felt better. He was calmer. The struggle of the first few months, her nervousness, and his fear of pain had made their sessions often end in tears. He hadn’t wanted to move, and she’d often sat instead at his bedside, her hand on his head. But his lethargy, his uncomprehending muscles, the darkness of the room had got to her, and she’d felt she must do something more than just pray. She had to remind the shrunken body that it lived. She had to wake him up.

One time they’d both fallen on the floor, his body heavy on hers, and they’d both cried out. Everett had come huffing up the stairs wondering at the racket and found them piled on top of each other, Fagus crying. Enid had said he’d wanted to pee. She’d locked the door after that.

She sat at the kitchen table, her dressing gown wrapped around her, the room lit by one lamp in the corner, and sipped her tea.

Joan, 1922

11

Joan, 1922

Joan and Pat were at the hovel, lent to Pat by a friend some years ago and never reclaimed. Joan didn’t ask what kind of friend. It was enough they had somewhere private to go. She still hadn’t broached the subject of her own flat with her mother. She was working up to it.

The hovel was old and twisted, with low beams and scalene windows, dusty floors, rugs overlaid, a huge fireplace, and sofas with the stuffing beaten out. Pat lay on the floor, covered in a blanket. She flicked ash vaguely toward the fire. “Another letter from the front?”

“Don’t be brutal.” Joan dropped the letter from Douglas on the table beside her.

“Has she had the baby?”

“Not yet. It’s not due for another month or so.”

“Whoopee,” said Pat, rolling onto her stomach.