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

‘I’ll fetch our dinner through, if you two would like to make your way to the dining room.’ She sailed out of the room like the Queen Mary and David winked at Emily.

‘She’s mad about me really,’ he grinned. ‘She just doesn’t know it yet.’

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Much later that night, Emily kissed Alex softly on the top of his head and slid under the bedcovers. She had just had a long, hushed phone conversation with Adam, filling him in on all that had happened. Once again, he had sounded a note of caution in the face of her unfettered optimism but had agreed that it all seemed very promising. He was currently in Tasmania and was heading for his appointment with a major winegrower in the region. His trip was going well, he told her, but he missed her and Alex desperately.

‘Me too,’ she'd whispered. ‘I love you. Take care. See you soon.’

She had put the phone down and sat for a while in the darkness, staring out at the stars as she often did. The vastness of the sky never failed to take her breath away but she also found comfort in the permanence of the constellations, each star in its place, as it spun through the galaxy millions of miles away, each brilliant in its own right but each a part of one amazing, awe-inspiring, starry pattern. She liked to pick out a single star and name it Emily and then name the stars around it- Adam, Alex, Norma and Frank, her adoptive parents. Recently, she had included Norah. Tonight, she also named one for Arthur and one for Iris.

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Chapter 20

Norah – August/September 1930

It was morning when they found his body at the bottom of the chalk quarry.

Norah sat in the chair by the window, looking out, watching, waiting all night, and leapt up immediately at the first sight of the figures on the horizon. She flung open the door and raced towards them as fast as her ungainly body would allow.

When she reached the first field of stubble, she stopped, panting hard, as a searing, agonising spasm shot through her stomach. Shielding her eyes from the morning sun, she ignored the pain and gazed at the human forms moving towards her. That was when she knew … although she would not allow herself to believe it. She could see the tall shape of Arthur and the smaller shape he was carrying in his arms and, for a split second, she was drenched in the ecstasy of relief. They had found him. Arthur was bringing him home.

Then she saw the slump of his shoulders, the despair in his lowered head. Another man, she could not yet see who it was, had his arm around Arthur; the other men had their eyes cast down. They moved like a funeral procession across the empty field towards her.

She could not move for the heaviness of the weight in her chest, squeezing her heart like a vice, crushing the breath from her. Instead, once again, she waited, praying for a sign, just a tiny movement, anything, to come from that small, limp body in her husband’s arms. As the men grew closer, she became aware of a low, rumbling, choking sound. Then she saw the tears coursing down Arthur’s face and she realised he was sobbing uncontrollably.

She exhaled in a splutter, unaware until that point that she'd been holding her breath. Now she was confronted with the certainty of her son’s death, with that final extinguishing of hope, she felt strangely calm, like this was happening to someone else. Once again, she headed towards the men, walking slowly this time but without fear.

‘I’m so sorry, Norah. He was dead when we found him. There was nothing I could do.’ His voice was raw with pain, with terror for her.

She held out her arms. ‘Let me take him.’

He lay there, gently cradled, his features composed as if in sleep, as she carried him home. His skin was cold and white but unblemished like a marble statue. Chalk dust shrouded his hair and clothes and puffed in tiny clouds as she walked heavily, step by step, one foot in front of the other. The birds were silent, their chorus sung; the morning breeze held its breath; no one spoke.

They reached the cottage and she walked inside, oblivious to the mumbled condolences of the men who had helped with the search. By the window was the chair where she had spent the night’s vigil and once again she lowered herself into the faded cushions. The morning sunlight was already warm as it shafted through the glass and she adjusted her son’s position so he could feel its rays on his icy skin. She watched the dust spirals, caught in the sunbeam, drift aimlessly, specks of nothingness. Tenderly, she stroked Jimmy’s head and she could hear someone singing a lullaby, the same one she had crooned when he was a baby fighting sleep. The notes were pure and clear; over and over the tune was repeated.

Arthur stood by helplessly, watching his wife trying to sing her son back to life, and wept.

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Norah’s calm lasted for five days, even while they prised his body from her arms and took him off in the undertaker’s cart, even while they buried him. Dr Darkins gave her sleeping draughts and told her she needed to rest for the sake of her unborn baby. Friends brought food while Arthur returned to the harvest field. She accepted their offerings and their tears with impassivity; she was numb to it all.

Life was cruel, she agreed. No mother should have to endure such pain as the loss of a child. Yes, she would carry on because she had to, because another was dependent on her. Yes, her husband and her friends had provided her with wonderful support – she was lucky to have them.

This had always been her way, she realised in a moment of insight. She was a carer; she always