She looked out over the valley, hoping to see Tom somewhere in the view. But there was nothing. The whole valley was still, much stiller than it should have been at this time of day. William Jones usually had his tractor out by now. It was the first and only one in the valley and he was always finding an excuse to use it, petrol rationing or not. But she couldn’t see it anywhere in his fields. Or hear it. Viewed through the gauze of the sunlit rain the valley looked like a painted landscape.
Sarah called the dogs. “Fly! Seren! Cumby!”
Fly came and sat nervously at her side. Sarah stroked her, drawing a hand across her head, over her ears, and down her damp neck. She could feel the dog’s muscles bunched tightly over the bone.
“Shh, cwtch ci,” she said, trying to relax her.
Maybe Tom had gone into town. But what for? They’d been told not to hoard or stock up on supplies, and they had everything they needed on the farm anyway. She still couldn’t remember anything of last night; why was that? She tried to picture herself in the house. She remembered cooking their meal. She’d burnt her calf on the oven door. She could still feel the tightness of the burn mark under her woollen stocking. They’d taken tea by the fire in the front room. Tom hadn’t spoken much, but then he often didn’t.
Fly slipped away from under her hand and trotted over the field to find Seren. Sarah watched her go then looked out at the valley once more, as if by looking hard enough she could conjure Tom from its fields and trees. Drawing a deep breath, she called his name into the morning air.
“Tom!”
Her voice echoed off the facing valley wall and immediately she felt stupid, childish, calling for him like that. The dogs pricked their ears and began running back up the slope towards her, their tongues hanging out the side of their mouths. She listened, but there was just the fading of her own voice and then the sticky breaths of Seren and Fly panting on either side of her. She stood to rise above the sound of them and called for Tom again, straining to hear a reply beyond her own echo. But again there was nothing. Just the intermittent bleat of a ewe, a blackbird mining its notes in a nearby tree, and underscoring everything, the distant rustle of the river running its course through the valley below.
Tom didn’t hear Sarah call for him but Maggie Jones did. She was standing in a field beside the river, one hand resting on the angular rump of a cow, when she heard Sarah shout from higher up the valley. Like Sarah she too was out looking for her husband. She’d checked the barn and the outhouses, the toolshed, but found no trace of him. The tractor was still in the yard, fresh soil stuck to the cleats of its wheels, but William was nowhere to be seen. She wasn’t worried. There was always work to be done somewhere on the farm. But then she came to the field by the river and found the cows. The three of them and their calves were crowded around the gate that opened onto the lane, licking at their nostrils, their breath steaming in the cold morning air. Their unmilked udders swung heavily between their legs.
In thirty years of marriage, Maggie had never known William to leave the cows unmilked. His father had been a dairy farmer and William had inherited his habit, if not his herd. Through sickness, holidays, bad weather, even on the morning of their wedding day, he’d been up with the dawn to usher them through the lane to the milking shed, then back again two hours later. A jostling, shitting, pissing ebb and flow you could set your watch by, as regular as any tidal chart.
Lifting the gate off its latch, she shouldered the two heifers at the front back a few steps, their hooves sucking in the mud as she pushed through to look over the rest of the field. It was empty. She sighed. She’d have to do the cows herself. She’d planned to go into Llanvoy this morning, and take some butter up to Edith. There were potatoes to be dug. But now she’d have to do the milking. William knew her back was playing up. Where the hell was he? She tried another sigh, heavier this time, but it was no use, her irritation lacked conviction. A more worrying thought was welling beneath it, draining her exasperation of its usual energy. She looked out at the open field again, retracing the last few days as she did; things William had said, things he hadn’t. The thought welled larger in her mind. She tried dismissing the possibility as ridiculous. William simply wouldn’t do that and she would surely have known about it if he did. But then Maggie heard Sarah call for Tom, her voice carried down the valley on the still air. It was all the confirmation she needed, and standing there among the cows with their swollen udders the thought broke within her. She knew with a terrible and sudden certainty that her husband wasn’t just up on the hill checking the sheep or out in the fields patching a hedge. She should have known as soon as she’d seen the cows, she realised that now. Known that wherever William had gone he wasn’t coming back.
“You stupid bugger,” she said under her breath, hitting the flank of the cow beside her with the heel of her fist. “You daft, stupid bugger William Jones.” The cow shifted its weight and she felt its hip joint move under her hand. She rested her forearm along its back and her head upon her arm. “At your age. You bloody stupid bugger.” The trees beside the river blurred and multiplied in her vision. She blinked and brought them back into focus. Sarah’s voice filtered down to her a second time, calling for Tom again. She looked up the hill in her direction. It was a beautiful day, a blue sky despite the light rain, the berries clustered red and thick in the hawthorn. Just a few high clouds. Up on the hill Sarah called a third time. The cows would have to wait. Everything would have to wait. Maggie pushed her way back through the small herd, opened the gate, and, closing it behind her, started walking up the lane towards Upper Blaen. She’s still young, she told herself as she went, still a girl really. She’d have to break this to her gently. But she wouldn’t lie to her either, she promised herself that. To lie to Sarah would be the worst thing she could do, to tell her it was going to be all right. Because it wasn’t, Maggie knew that now. She’d heard the news on the wireless these past days. It wasn’t going to be all right. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t be; they could still be prepared, they could still carry on, however long the men were away.
Fourteen days.
“Fourteen days of activity. You can expect around fourteen days from the invasion date. Still up for it?”
That’s what Tommy Atkins had said. He’d made it clear what he meant too; what would happen after the “activity” ended. Fourteen days before you’re caught, tortured, and shot, that’s what he was saying. George Bowen shifted in his narrow bed. He came out in a cold sweat every time he thought of it. According to the papers the first landing craft beached at Dover eight days ago. Just six days then, was that it? He counted them off on his hand under the bedclothes, opening a finger from his fist for each day of the week. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday. Next Monday then. Or maybe Tuesday if he was lucky. His turn to “perish in the common ruin.” That’s how Churchill had put it on the wireless last week: “perish in the common ruin rather than fail or falter in your duty.” But what if he did fail or falter? What if he didn’t do his duty? What would happen then?