Monday, 12th May 1947 Littleford, Norfolk
I sit by the kitchen fire, the night damp and the wind rattling the old slate roof, and I feel the need to set down the tangled weeks that have passed. My wife, Mary, is still called a halfwoman by my mother, a phrase I have never heard used with such venom. She mutters that I am still a halfwife because we have yet to hear a childs cry in our modest cottage. I watch Marys shoulders tremble as she sighs, a bitter smile playing on her lips, and I cannot help but think that God sees the whole of our lives, even when the road ahead looks bleak.
Motherinlaw, Agnes, leans over her tea and, halfdeaf as she is, says loudly, Dont listen to her, Mary. The Almighty knows what He is doing. Youre not meant to have a baby yet; He sees the future. Marys eyes fill with tears. She rarely speaks of this sorrow aloud; she keeps it locked in her heart while she travels ten miles back to her childhood hamlet, Greenfield, to tend her mothers grave. There she sits with old Mrs. Hartley, the halfdeaf neighbour, and confides, We have been married five years, yet I still long for a child. The village dogs bark, sparrows chirp, yet the usual hum of the countryside has faded; Greenfield is almost deserted, its thatched cottages leaning towards the river as if bowing their final farewell.
Mary returns to her husbands larger village, Ivelshire, before dawn, fearing the dark woods and open fields that haunted her as a child. Six years ago she was orphaned: her father died shortly after the war, her mother passed away when she was a babe. She took work as a milkmaid on the local cooperative farm. It was June when I first met her, the seventeenth summer of her life and my first season on the farm. The walk to the dairy was long, but she ran the distance with a grin, even as her hands ached from the hard milking.
One rainy morning a sudden downpour drove her under the lowroofed shed at the edge of the woods. She sat on the wooden bench, pulling the wet strands of her dark hair from her face. Through the slanting rain she saw a lanky, darkhaired youth in a crumpled checkshirt and rolledup trousers dash toward the shelter. He slipped inside, grinned, and shouted, What a treat! Im Nicholas, and who might you be? Marys heart hammered; she clutched the benchs edge and answered, Marys the name. He teased, Got a chill? Need a warm spot? and boasted, Im from the MTSMiddlesex Transport Service. His jokes stretched on, then turned into a bold, almost reckless advance that made Marys blouse stick to her skin. Startled, she fled the rain in a rush, her breath ragged, the forest dark and foreboding.
Nicholas, a temporary hand on the farm, lingered in Marys thoughts. He returned later, more serious, courting her with a sincerity that suggested the earlier encounter had left a mark. Their courtship blossomed into marriage, though the prospect of joining my household filled Mary with dread. My mother, ever critical, was quick to unload some of the farms burdens onto my new wife, yet she watched every chore with a hawks eye. Though the load was heavy, Mary never complained; she was sturdy and diligent, even as my mothers chastisements stung. In truth, Mary entered our home penniless, without a dowry, an orphan with nothing but her resolve.
Months passed, and my mothers complaints softened as she saw Marys competence. Yet the pressure for an heir remained. Years slipped by without a pregnancy, and my mothers tongue grew sharper: Youre a barren hag, Mary. Whats a house without grandchildren? Mary wept into Nicholass shoulder; he rebuked my mother while she screamed even louder. My father, silent, only offered a bowl when Mary set it before him.
Mary, refusing to surrender hope, visited the village nurse and the local vicars wife, seeking every remedy for childlessness. Life went on; the Nicky family was not destitute, but the postwar years were lean, and every scrap counted. One crisp morning Nicholas brought home half a sack of damp grain. My mother shrieked, Dont let them find out! and Nicholas soothed, We all pull together, mother. Mary begged him not to take on such risks, yet he persisted, dragging scraps from the fields for us.
Sleep became a stranger to Mary. She would sit on the bed, legs tucked beneath her, waiting for Nicholas to return. One November evening, when the wind howled through the open doors and rain lashed the windows, she set out to find him. She gathered a skirt, a coat, her sturdy canvas raincoat, and a pair of rubber boots, stepping out into the night. The village was dark; even the dogs hid. She followed the road to the edge of the parish, where an old barn stood solitary. The field beyond was the very nighttime forest she had feared since childhood.
There, amid the relentless rain, she heard a light, lilting laugh. It drifted from the barn. She recognized Nicholass voice, but also another: a womans, bright and carefree. It was Kate, a girl from the neighboring hamlet who had worked alongside Mary on the dairy. Kate, once bold and talkative, sang about leaving the village for the city, about finding a rich, bald gentleman, about never settling for a life on the farm. Lately, however, her laughter had faded, and whispers among the women suggested she was nursing a secret attachment to a married man.
Mary stood frozen, the rain seeping through her coat, as Kates voice rose again, saying, Nicholas, Ill have a child with you, and I wont raise it alone. The words cut through the storm. Kate bolted from the barn, slipping on the mud, her skirt snagging on a broken fence, and fled back toward the village.
Later, the police and the cooperatives chairman arrived at our cottage, escorted by my father, who stood mute, eyes narrowing at the unwelcome guests. Fourteen of us were taken to the council offices, our belongings stacked into a lorry that rumbled away to the town of Norwich for trial. As the doors closed, Kate stood beneath the birch trees, her face pale.
The trial was swift. Ten years were handed down to Nicholas for gross immorality and breach of marital trust. My mother wept, clutching the chairmans coat, while I could only stare at the empty pot on the stove. The news sank like a stone.
Soon after, Kate returned to our cottage, her belly rounded with a childElliot, as we named him. She sat at the kitchen table, hands folded, while my father and mother looked away, shame staining their faces. Mother spoke first, Mary, well care for the child as our own. I watched the tiny boys cheek, the same shade as my own, and felt a strange knot in my chest.
Days grew shorter, the winter harsher. My mother fell ill, and Kate, despite her own grief, began to look after her, even defending me when my mothers tongue cut too deep. I found myself watching Kate soothe my mother, her hands gentle on the old womans brow. The farms work fell heavily on Marys shoulders; she kept milking from dawn until dusk, glancing through the kitchen window at the dark woods beyond the river, remembering the village of her birth and the dreams she once held of a city life.
I often wondered what my mother would say now if she could see us: two women sharing one roof, one child belonging to a man who was no longer theirs. She would likely mutter, Two wives for one manwhos the real lady? Yet she also whispered, At least there is a grandchild.
Spring arrived, and the cooperative built new twobed houses for families, bringing fresh faces to the hamlet. Among them was Vera, a lively milkmaid from a nearby town. She asked Mary about her life; Mary told her of the strange arrangement of wife and lover under one roof. Vera, shocked, advised Mary to leave. Mary laughed it off, Where would I go? The farm needs me. The little Elliot grew, toddling about the yard, clinging to Marys skirts, his cheeky grin brightening the cold evenings.
May brought the village fête. I baked a batch of oat scones, measured out flour with a sturdy wooden spoon, and set them on the iron stove. Kate arrived, cheeks flushed from the walk, and devoured a scone, declaring, Life is good! The scent of fresh bread filled the cottage, but my mind lingered on the tangled web we were caught in.
At night, as the rain tapped gently on the roof, I thought of the forest I had feared as a boy, the one that now seemed less menacing. I realized that the walls we buildwhether of expectation, shame, or traditionoften imprison us more than any external force. Marys endurance, Kates audacity, my mothers harshness, and my own silence all taught me that freedom lies in facing the truth, however uncomfortable.
I have decided to leave Littleford for the textile town of Ipswich, where a girls weaving school is taking apprentices. Vera whispered the opportunity to me, and I have saved enough penniesabout fifty poundsto buy a secondhand trolley and a modest room in the dormitory. The journey ahead is uncertain, but it feels like the first step toward a life where I can decide my own fate.
Lesson learned: No matter how tangled the threads of love, duty, and tradition become, the only way to untie them is to pull with honesty and courage, even if it means walking away from the only world you have ever known.
