The Girl in the Scrapbook by Carolyn Ruffles (reading women TXT) 📕

of this pregnancy, Norah had thought of the baby as a ‘she’, a little girl. Everything about this pregnancy had felt different from the first time around and she was convinced she was going to have a daughter. She had even been thinking of names, although Arthur had told her this was bad luck. Her favourite was Iris, her mother’s name. Iris Fletcher – the name sounded right for the baby she was carrying, pretty but strong and determined, a woman to be reckoned with. Already she had dreams for Iris, a glittering future mapped out, well away from the drear and toil of working class, country life. She could picture her too – a slender, feminine version of Arthur, with long, curly, black hair and soulful, brown eyes which crinkled with wit and humour. Or maybe her eyes would be green, like her own. That would be nice, if she had her eyes.

One thing was for sure, though - she would be a girl with spirit. Norah often felt these days that her own spirit had somehow ebbed away, erased bit by bit, dream by dream. It was if each harsh event, each choice she had been forced into making, had taken its toll on her and shaped her into someone who only existed as a wife and mother, completely unrecognisable from the ambitious, carefree, privileged girl she had once been.

She was content though. She loved Arthur dearly and he had proved an excellent husband in all the ways that mattered. He had spent recent weeks extending the cottage yet again to make room for the new baby and worked tirelessly to provide for her and Jimmy in these difficult times. Many other women in the village, she knew, were not so fortunate. As for her son, she adored him with a passion and a fierceness which proved there was still fire burning inside her. It was just that it had been redirected somehow, away from herself, all for her family, in the constant, daily struggle to care for them.

Her thoughts continued to drift and her eyelids grew heavy. Her mind absorbed the sounds from the garden, bees humming in the lavender by the front door, birds chirping and calling from the safety of the beech tree, the distant murmur of voices in the fields …

She awoke with a start and her first thought was the time. She still had Arthur’s farses to prepare and she hated to be late. A glance at the clock on the mantel told her it was half past three and she instantly relaxed. She had only been sleeping for ten minutes or so. If she hurried, she could still make it down to the field by four o’clock, when Arthur would be expecting her.

She struggled uncomfortably to her feet and crossed to the larder to fetch some bread and cheese. The loaf was almost finished and she had not yet made the dough for the next, she thought guiltily. Usually this was something she did early every morning but today she had felt so heavy and slow, so drained by the heat, and everything seemed to have taken three times as long as normal. Now it meant that when she returned from the fields for the final time that day, she would still have several chores to complete before she could go to bed.

Wearily, she trudged to the drawer where she kept the bread knife. As she did so, she glanced out of the window and frowned. Jimmy was no longer visible beneath the beech tree. Craning her neck for a better view, she could see the soldiers discarded under the tree but of her son there was no sign. Sighing, she detoured to the door which was open to let any breeze through and called his name. There was no response. He was not anywhere to be seen in the front garden; he must have gone around the back.

However, when she looked, he was not there either. She searched the privy in the corner of their small yard and then back into the cottage, all the time calling, ‘Jimmy, come here this minute. We need to go back to the harvest field to take Daddy his tea. Jimmy!’

Shielding her eyes from the sun, she scanned the fields to the rear of the cottage but could see no small figure, dressed in white short-sleeved shirt and grey shorts. Refusing to panic, Norah made her way back to the front garden to look up and down their lane and to check the field opposite. Still no sign – just Agnes Fowler walking back from the shops.

‘Agnes, have you seen Jimmy?’ Agnes shook her head. ‘He was playing right here, under the tree, but now he’s disappeared.’

Agnes set down her shopping and put her hands on her hips. With a frown, she asked, ‘How long as he been missing?’

‘I’m not sure but probably no more than ten or fifteen minutes.’

‘Well, he can’t have gone far, not with his little legs.’ Agnes turned to gaze across the field and shook her head. ‘Can’t see him but then my eyes aren’t too good these days. Do you want me to help you look?’

‘No, no, that’s kind but I’m sure you’re right. He won’t be far away. I wonder,’ she mused, ‘if he’s headed back to the corn field. He was having fun chasing the rabbits and he wasn’t best pleased when I brought him home.’

‘Aye, I expect that’s it,’ Agnes nodded sagely. ‘I’ll keep my eyes peeled and bring him back if I find him.’

Norah hurried back inside to grab Arthur’s bread and cheese and set off towards the fields as fast as her bulky frame would allow. She was breathing heavily, her whole body clammy with heat and the fear now broiling inside her. ‘Jimmy! Jimmy!’ Her cries were shrill, increasingly urgent.

‘He’ll be down the field with his Dad.’ She spoke the words aloud, over and over like a mantra, between her shouts. ‘He’ll be down