‘No! Want Doris! Want Mummy!’
‘Please, James,’ she said again. ‘It’s not far – come on...’
But James sank to his knees and began to howl – mouth open, cheeks red, tears streaming down his face.
Margot considered her options. She could carry James if she didn’t have the shopping – could she go back to the village shop and leave the parcel there to be picked up later? She glanced back down the street. It was a good five minutes there and five minutes back, not to mention however long it would take to explain to the grocer. Even supposing she could run, which she couldn’t. The dirt road through the village would, she supposed, eventually be tarred over if everyone carried on buying motor cars, but right now it was thick and claggy and potholed, with two deep ruts in the dirt where the cart tracks ran. You couldn’t run along it – not easily – and certainly not in petticoats.
Could she leave the parcels here and come back to them? A spatter of rain against her cheek suggested not. She looked up at the sky. Grey, heavy clouds as far as she could see. She thought of the Christmas cards and chocolates in the brown-paper parcel. They would be ruined. And she had no money left for more.
She glanced around, looking for help, but the street was silent. Her father would be on good terms with every family in the village – or so it seemed – but Margot didn’t have his confidence. The houses here were smaller, labourers’ cottages, and the thought of knocking and asking for help was impossible – she would rather abandon the Christmas presents than do that. But perhaps... at the top of the next street was Miss Dawson’s house. Miss Dawson was one of her father’s Churchy Ladies, a particular favourite of Margot’s, who could remember being given comfits when out delivering the parish magazine with her father. Miss Dawson would look after the parcels – and if she were out, they could be left in her porch at least. Then Margot could carry James home. Two streets – James could walk two streets, couldn’t he?
She knelt down beside him in the dirt.
‘James, listen,’ she said. In desperation she threw the precepts of her childhood to one side. ‘Would you like another sweetie?’
He couldn’t stop crying, but he gave a half-nod, shuddering.
‘All right, well – we’re going to walk to a lady’s house, Miss Dawson –’ (Would he know who Miss Dawson was?) ‘It’s not far, and when we get there, you can have a sweetie. And then Margot will carry you... Oh no, James, please don’t cry...’
‘Carry me!’
It was hopeless. She hauled him up by the armpits, and he collapsed himself, stiffening his back, slackening his muscles so she had to take the whole of his weight.
‘Come on, James. James, please...’
‘Excuse me?’
She looked up, and felt the blood rush into her face.
Because of course it was him. Of course, of course, it was. Like something in a penny novelette.
Harry Singer, all dark hair and old army greatcoat, and a scarf in bright scarlet wrapped casually around his neck. He was broader than she’d remembered, and taller and older too, much older than he had a right to be after three years apart. But still nice-looking. Still with that something – was it kindness? – hovering in his eyes. Oh God. And she must look older too. Sometimes, looking in the mirror, she felt a hundred years old. Oh, of all the times to see him! Kneeling there in the dirt, her skirts splashed with mud, James howling and thrashing in her arms.
Had he got her letter yet? If not – oh, how awful! – what must he think of her?
Hullo, Harry. This is your son. She had a helpless urge to giggle.
‘It’s my fault,’ she said desperately. He’s nice really, honour bright. He’s only behaving like this because I don’t know how to look after him properly. Oh God, he’ll never want us now.
‘I made him walk to the shop, and now he won’t walk back. He wants to be carried, but I’ve got these parcels...’
‘Most unfortunate,’ said Harry solemnly. ‘Perhaps you might permit me to assist?’
He talked like a gentleman in a novella too. She’d forgotten he had this habit when nervous. It came from his father, who really did talk like this, and wrote articles for journals about the deplorable state of diets for urban children just like this too. Somehow, knowing he was nervous calmed her down. It made her feel protective, the way it always used to, back when they were both children and love was simple.
She was smiling despite herself. Ridiculous to be won over so easily by a man! And yet... at that moment, she would probably have accepted a marriage proposal from anyone who offered to help.
‘Thank you,’ she said. Then, ‘Look, Jamie! This gentleman is going to help Margot carry her boxes, so she can carry you!’
He didn’t seem to have heard her.
Harry crouched down in the mud beside him.
‘Would you like to be carried home?’ he asked solemnly.
He had his own little sisters, she remembered. And how prosaic this first meeting between father and son! Because while it was simultaneously like something out of a penny novella, it was also immensely ordinary. The grey Yorkshire drizzle, the wet parcels, the crying child. For so long after that Missing in action telegram, she had wondered if he would ever come back. How awful if he never met his son! How wonderful if he were alive, how wonderful to be able to introduce him to James, to have somebody to share this joy and this grief.
But it wasn’t like that at all. And the words wouldn’t come.
James stared, the closeness of a stranger enough to stop his tears. He retreated backwards into Margot’s legs and buried his face in her side. She put her arm around him, realising that she ought to have been trying to comfort him before.
‘All right, darling,’ she said. And then, to Harry, ‘If you really wouldn’t mind –’
He took the brown paper parcels into his arms. There was another spot of rain, and then another, and then suddenly it was raining properly – not heavily, but enough to make James whimper.
‘All right,’ she said again, and lifted him onto her hip.
He was heavier than she’d expected, and an awkward weight against her breastbone. Still, there was nothing else for it. Not looking at Harry, she set off back towards the vicarage, Harry following.
They walked without talking. Margot couldn’t stop herself glancing at him. He looked like a different person! His hair was darker than she remembered, and thicker, and it fell in a tumble over his eyes. And his smile! She’d often wondered if he’d lost that easy happiness after two years as a POW, and looking at him now, she had her answer. The ease had gone – his happiness was not a straightforward thing, and he knew that now. But the delight in the world was still there. He had fought whatever demons one found in prisoner of war camps, and he had won. The weight of the sky may have wobbled on his shoulders, but now he carried it securely again.
She envied him, as she always had. Her own sky had fallen onto her head, and she hadn’t the first notion how to lift it up again.
She looked at him, almost against her will, to see if his eyes were still the same colour and caught him looking at her. She flushed and he laughed.