10November
Dear Diary,
I have not felt such heaviness in my chest for years. The words of my motherinlaw still echo in my mind, Youre a barren womanno longer even a proper woman, just a halfwoman. I tried to smile through the bitterness, but the tears that slipped down my cheeks told a truer story.
Susan, the halfdeaf neighbour who lives next door, leaned in sharply and whispered, Dont listen to her; only God knows what He is doing. Its still too early for you to bear a childHe sees what lies ahead. Her voice cracked, But Susan how can you see? Weve been together for five years, and I long for a baby. The words came out of me rarely, hidden in a silent ache that I kept locked within my heart.
I had come back to my childhood hamlet, Willowbrook, a short tenkilometre walk from my mothers grave, to pay my respects. Sitting on the old stone bench outside the chapel, I confessed my sorrows to Susan, hoping the familiar cadence of village life might soothe me.
The truth is sorrowful, she said, but it is not us who find children; they find us. Hold on, girl.
The usual village soundsdogs barking, sparrows chatteringhad faded. Willowbrook, once a bustling place in North Yorkshire, now lay almost deserted, its thatched cottages crouching towards the River Wye as if offering their final bow.
Soon I had to return to my husbands home in the larger village of Ivyfield. I dreaded the dark woods and open fields that lay between Willowbrook and Ivyfield; they had haunted me since childhood.
My story began here, in this part of England, six years ago when I was left alone. My father died shortly after the war, and my mother passed away when I was a child. I took up work as a milkmaid on the local cooperative farm.
In June, the year I turned seventeen, I met the man who would become my husband. I was still new to the farm, my hands sore from the endless milking, yet I ran to the fields with a smile. One misty morning, a sudden sideways shower drenched the lane. The sky darkened, thunder rolled low, and everything seemed to tilt.
I ducked under the modest wooden shelter that stood at the edge of the woods, pulling my wet hair into a loose braid and wringing out the rain. Through the slanting sheets of water I saw a darkhaired lad in a checkered shirt and trousers rolled just above the knee sprint toward me. He slipped under the shelter, grinned, and shouted, What a surprise! Im Nicholaswho might you be?
My heart hammered in the gloom. I stayed silent, edging away from the bench.
Did the thunder stun you? Or are you just shy? he teased.
Not shy, I replied, Im Elspeth.
Cold? Need a warm drink? he continued, inching closer. Im from the cooperative, just finished a shift.
He laughed a while longer, then his jokes turned a bit too forward. My blouse clung to me, and I felt a flush of embarrassment. I broke into a run, the rain splashing around my feet, the forest seeming even darker and more foreboding than before.
Later, Nicholas returned as a temporary farmhand. I watched him with a mix of irritation and curiosity. He began to court me earnestly, and that first encounter lingered in my memory.
When we married, I entered the household with hope, though I knew little of what awaited me in my husbands home and the unfamiliar village. My motherinlaw proved stern and unwell; she offhandedly shifted many chores onto me but kept a keen eye on how I fulfilled them.
The strain was real, but I refused to surrender. I was a diligent, resilient womanonly the constant reproaches from my motherinlaw weighed heavily. She reminded me constantly that I came into the marriage with nothing but my own hands, no dowry, an orphaned girl.
After a year, and then another, I still had not conceived.
Youre a spoiled, barren woman, my motherinlaw snapped one evening. Whats the point of this house without grandchildren?
I wept into Nicholass shoulder, and he chastised her, which only made her rage worse. She would stare at me only when I set a bowl before her.
Yet I held onto hope. I visited the local midwife, stole herbs from the vicars garden, brewed concoctions that the village women claimed could restore fertility.
Life trudged on. The Nixons, as our family was now known, were not wealthy, but we managed in the postwar years. One crisp morning Nicholas brought home half a sack of damp grain.
My love, dont waste it, my motherinlaw warned, lest they take it away.
I cautioned Nicholas not to get involved in such petty matters, but he persisted, bringing home scraps from the fields. My nights grew restless; I would sit on the bed in the dark, knees drawn up, waiting for him.
One November night, the wind howled through the open doors, rain pelting my face as I stepped onto the doorstep, wrapped in a battered canvas coat and rubber boots. I called his name into the storm, yet he was nowhere to be seen. I walked toward the edge of Ivyfield, past the empty houses, the dogs huddled indoors, even my beloved terrier, Finn, stayed close.
Near the old stone barn at the villages fringe, I heard a faint, tinkling laugh carried on the rain. It was Kat, a girl from the neighboring hamlet who had once worked with me on the cooperative farm. Once a lively, outspoken soul, Kat had dreamed of leaving the village for the city, seeking work and education. Lately, however, the spark in her had dimmed; rumours swirled that she was angry with her husband.
The laughter cut through the rain, and I realized my heart was still beating, though my mind raced.
I returned home, drenched, and set about washing the day’s milk in the kitchen. The house, once filled with my husbands laughter, now seemed hollow. Finn, my terrier, wagged his tail, unaware of my turmoil.
The next morning, two police constables and the cooperative chief arrived. My motherinlaw clutched at the chiefs lapel, sobbing, while my fatherinlaw stared at the newcomers with a grim expression. The authorities seized fourteen villagers, including Nicholas, and escorted them to the council office. Later, a truck arrived, loading all the detained men into the back and driving them away to the city for trial.
I watched the scene, my heart pounding, as Kat stood under a birch, silent. The arrest rattled the whole village, though most kept their mouths shut, fearing reprisals. My motherinlaw fell into a deep melancholy, my fathers health waned, and sleep eluded me for days.
Nicholas never returned. The marriage lingered in a limbo of unspoken grief and lingering resentment. I could not bring myself to consider divorce; a wife of an arrested man was not welcomed in other cooperatives.
Weeks later, as I carried fresh milk back from the fields, I opened the door to find Kat sitting at the kitchen table, hands folded over her swollen belly. Beside her sat my parentsinlaw, both looking defeated.
Good day, Kat murmured.
My dear, youve been to the city, visited our relativesOlivia and Ninayour husbands brothers and their children, my motherinlaw added, her voice trembling.
Kat sighed, The court sentenced Nicholas to ten years. It was said he was a state criminal. All of us got the same fate.
My motherinlaw pressed a handkerchief to her eyes, weeping. I tried to comfort her, Perhaps theyll let him out later, or at least reduce his sentence.
Kat, with a fierce glance, declared, Listen, Nicholas was going to marry me, but now hes gone. Ill raise his child alone. I wont be a mother alone; the village will raise him, and Ill stay here.
The room fell into a heavy silence. I stared at the worn kitchen table, my hands resting on my apron, feeling the weight of their words.
Days grew shorter, the winter harsher. My motherinlaw fell ill, and Kat, despite our strained relationship, began to help her, sometimes defending me when my motherinlaws sharp tongue cut too deep.
I spent my afternoons milking, watching the river beyond the hedge, pondering my fate. I missed my own mother, wondering what she would say now, seeing her daughter trapped between two mens households, a double wife in the eyes of the village.
In January, a small bundle arrived on a donkey: a baby boy, named Ethan, delivered from the local hospital. My motherinlaw clutched him, whispering, He looks just like Nicholas. I felt a pang of jealousy and sorrow, for the child was not mine, yet his cries pierced my heart.
I tried to bond with Ethan, but the grief of not being his mother lingered. Kat, though strict, cared for him in her own way, while Finn bounded around, oblivious.
The cooperative decided to build four new twobed cottages, bringing in a few replacement milkmaids from other counties. With them came new friendships; Vera, a lively woman from Lincolnshire, visited one Sunday and asked, Whats this all about? Two women under one roof? I tried to explain, but she merely advised, Leave, Elspeth. You have nowhere to go.
I laughed it off, Theres no other place for me, Vera. The farm needs me.
As the spring arrived, I began baking pies. I measured out four scoops of flour into the castiron pot, humming as the dough rose. Kat prepared to attend a village gathering, slipping on a bright necklace before she left. My motherinlaw, cradling Ethan, remarked, Youre a good mother to the child, though not his. Its a shame you cant have your own.
I whispered, Maybe its a blessing in disguise. Perhaps God will give me a child one day, or perhaps Ill find joy in caring for others.
Vera watched me, concern in her eyes, You look pale, Elspeth. Is everything all right?
I shrugged, Ill be alright.
Later, the pies emerged golden, and Kat returned, cheeks flushed with laughter, These are wonderful, Elspeth! I should have come earlier! She snatched a piece, crumbs falling onto her dress.
Meanwhile, Finn circled the hearth, tail wagging, as I tended to the farm. The villages quiet rhythm continued, even as my thoughts swirled like the rain outside.
One evening, with the rain pattering softly on the roof, I decided I could no longer wait for a miracle that might never come. I packed a sturdy canvas bag with a few belongings, slipped on my rainboots, and slipped on my coat. I stepped out into the damp lane, feeling the cold bite of the wind.
I walked toward the old railway station, remembering Veras suggestion that the town of Harwell was hiring women as textile workers, offering a small dormitory. I had saved a few poundstwo tenpound notes that Nicholas had handed me before he disappeared. I clutched them tightly, feeling both fear and a strange exhilaration.
At the station, a foreman approached, his face shadowed by the lantern light. He took my bag, offering to haul me on his handcart. Ill get you there, love, rather than let you walk in this storm.
I thanked him, whispered a quiet farewell to the life Id known, and watched the train pull away, its whistle echoing into the night.
Now, as the train rattles along the tracks, I feel the pull of a new future. The rain outside the carriage windows blurs the countryside, but I see a glimmer of hope. I am leaving behind the weight of an empty house, the whispers of judgment, and the endless waiting. Perhaps, in Harwell, I will learn a trade, make new friends, and maybe, just maybe, find the peace I have longed for.
Until tomorrow,
Elspeth.
