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

sought to reassure and comfort others; their needs always came first. Arthur had clung to her that first night, unable to contain his grief, and she had held him, hushed his tears, told him that as long as they had each other, they would get through this. She was the strong one. She had to be – it was her penance. Her failure as a mother, her moment of weakness, of self-indulgence, had caused the death of her son. She would never forgive herself.

When they buried his body in Great Chalkham graveyard, she watched stony-faced whilst others shed tears. Never again, she vowed to herself, would she allow harm to befall one of her family. Whatever it took, she would give her life in a heartbeat. She did not deserve to live and it was her punishment to endure.

The weather had broken and thunder rumbled through the village. The torrential rain meant no work in the fields and almost the entire population of Chalkham assembled at the church to pay their respects to the bereaved family. Norah had always been a favourite in the village, many remembering her previous kindnesses, and the congregation looked on, genuine compassion and sadness in their eyes for the heavily pregnant, red-haired figure in black and her tall, dark husband.

Afterwards, many trudged to the Fletchers’ cottage, where Cissy, Sybil and Stella, her closest friends, had organised sandwiches, cake and copious cups of tea. They stood, shoulder to shoulder, packed in like sheep in a pen, dripping rain on to the floorboards and murmuring platitudes. Norah and Arthur shuffled their way through them, listening politely, expressing thanks, moving on until at last they were alone. Then, exhausted, they lay in bed, staring uncomprehendingly into the darkness, reliving the torture of the day, unable to sleep.

The next morning, after Arthur had gone to work, Norah dressed in the same black dress she had worn the day before, put on her sturdy, brown boots and went outside. The rain had stopped but it was still overcast, the sky heavy with slate grey clouds, and remnants of puddles rippled in the fresh breeze. She took the direct route across the fields, struggling a little to manoeuvre her bulk over the stile at the edge of Chalkham wood. The last time she had struggled so was when she was no older than three or four and she recalled the laughing eyes of her father as he helped her over. How many times had she walked this way? Too many to count. She had ridden this way too, jumping Rusty over the ditch at the edge of the field and then cutting back through the wood. Her memory edged to more recent times and Jimmy, fiercely independent, desperate to climb over himself although he was still too small and batting away her helping hand. She pictured him reaching the stile all alone, that last time, fearless, seeing no danger ahead, keen to return to the harvest field which lay to the south. What had happened then when he realised he could not manage it on his own? Had something distracted him? Probably. Something had made him veer off course and towards the chalk pits.

‘You must never ever go near the edge, Jimmy. It’s dangerous. Do you understand?’ She had reminded him often and each time he had nodded solemnly, even though he was too young to understand the meaning of danger.

She walked there now, stopping as she reached the first gaping hole in the earth. The familiar prickles of fear tingled down her spine, just as they had when she had been a child. She had always hated the pits. Now she knew why.

She walked on, head down, one arm supporting the weight in her belly. Arthur had told her that they had found Jimmy in the furthest pit, his body obscured by the rotting trunk of an ash tree, uprooted in a storm many years before. That was why it had taken so long to find him. He had a broken neck, Dr Darkins had told them. Death would have been instant. He had not suffered.

It took her twenty minutes to find the spot. She stood at the edge and looked down. Ironically, the slope was not so steep there as in some places. You would think that anyone who slipped over the side might roll harmlessly – no more than a broken arm or leg at worst. The tree trunk was a long way down, at least one hundred feet. Mercilessly, she stared at its jagged edges, forcing herself to imagine what it might have been like, tumbling down, down, down and then the impact, the crack and snap of delicate bones. After that, nothing - only blackness, the tiny candle of his life stubbed brutally out. She felt suddenly dizzy and stumbled backwards, sinking to the damp ground. It was too much to bear; she was not strong enough; she could endure no longer.

Once she started screaming, she could not stop. Her fury at herself, at God, at the laws of nature, all of whom had failed to protect her child and keep him safe, was finally unleashed.

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That night Norah lay in bed with Arthur snoring gently beside her. Sleep once again eluded her and she had refused to take any more sleeping draughts for fear of hurting the unborn baby. Taking care not to wake her husband, she peeled back the sheet and swung her legs around so her feet rested on the cool, wooden floor. She then pushed herself upright and padded over to the window. It was another starry night and she searched the sky, looking for that one special star. There it was – small but glowing more brightly than those surrounding it. She smiled.

‘Goodnight my darling. Sleep tight.’

The star flickered and her heart skipped. It was a sign, she knew it. He was not gone forever; he was there, a beautiful, shining star. She opened the window and leant out, letting the breeze