by Jojo Moyes
She didn’t speak.
“I’ll be right here, Alice.”
“Thank you,” she said.
* * *
• • •
She’s my wife. I got a right to talk to her.”
“You think I give a Sam Hill what you—”
Fred got to him first. She had been dozing in the chair—she felt exhausted to her bones—and woke to the sound of voices.
“It’s okay, Fred,” she called out. “Let him in.”
She drew back the bolt and opened the door a sliver.
“Well, then, I’m coming in, too.” Fred walked in behind Bennett so that the two men stood there for a moment, shaking snow from their boots and patting themselves down.
Bennett flinched when he saw her. She hadn’t dared look at her face, but his expression told her much of what she needed to know. He took a breath and rubbed his palm over the back of his head. “You need to come home, Alice,” he said, adding: “He won’t do it again.”
“Since when did you have any say over what your father does, Bennett?” she said.
“He’s promised. He didn’t mean to hit you that hard.”
“Just the little bit. Oh, that’s fine, then,” said Fred.
Bennett shot him a look. “Tempers were high. Pa just . . . Well, he’s not used to a woman sassing him.”
“So what’s he going to do next time Alice opens her mouth?”
Bennett turned and squared up to Fred. “Hey, Guisler, you want to butt out of this? Because, far as I can see, this ain’t no business of yours.”
“It’s my business when I see a defenseless woman get beat to a pulp.”
“And you’d be the expert on how to manage a wife, huh? Because we all know what happened to your wife—”
“That’s enough,” said Alice. She stood slowly—sudden movements made her head throb—and turned to Fred. “Can you leave us a moment, Fred? . . . Please?”
His gaze darted from her to Bennett and back again. “I’ll be right outside,” he muttered.
They stared at their feet until the door closed. She looked up first, at the man she had married just over a year ago, a man, she now realized, who had symbolized an escape route rather than any genuine meeting of minds or souls. What had they really known about each other, after all? They had been exotic to one another, a suggestion of a different world to two people who were each trapped, in their own way, by the expectations of those around them. And then, slowly, her difference had become repugnant to him.
“You coming on home, then?” he said.
Not I’m sorry. We can fix this, talk it out. I love you and I’ve spent the whole night worrying about you.
“Alice?”
Not We’ll go somewhere by ourselves. We’ll start again. I missed you, Alice.
“No, Bennett, I’m not coming back.”
It took him a moment to register what she had said. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not coming back.”
“Well . . . where will you go?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“You—you can’t just leave. It doesn’t work like that.”
“Says who? Bennett—you don’t love me. And I can’t . . . I can’t be the wife you need me to be. We are making each other desperately unhappy and there’s nothing . . . nothing to suggest that is going to change. So, no. There’s no point in me coming back.”
“This is Margery O’Hare’s influence. Pa was right. That woman—”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake. I know my own mind.”
“But we’re married.”
She straightened up. “I’m not coming back to that house. And if you and your father drag me out of here a hundred times, I will just keep on leaving.”
Bennett rubbed the back of his neck. He shook his head and turned a quarter away from her. “You know he won’t accept this.”
“He won’t.”
She watched his face, across which several emotions seemed to be competing with each other, and felt briefly overwhelmed by the sadness of it all, at the admission that this really was it, the end. But there was something else in there: something she hoped he could detect too. Relief.
“Alice?” he said.
And there it was again, this bizarre hope, irrepressible as a spring bud, that even at this late hour he might take her in his arms, swear that he couldn’t live without her, that this was all a hideous mistake and that they would be together, like he had promised. The belief, engraved deep within her, that every love story held, at its heart, the potential for a happy ending.
She shook her head.
And, without another word, he left.
* * *
• • •
Christmas was a muted affair. Margery didn’t celebrate Christmas traditionally, it being associated with not one good memory for her, but Sven insisted and bought a small turkey that he stuffed and cooked, and made cinnamon cookies from his mother’s Swedish recipe. Margery had many skills, he told her, shaking his head, but if he relied on her to cook, he’d be the width of that broom handle.
They invited Fred, which for some reason made Alice self-conscious, and every time he looked across the table at her he managed to time it to the exact second she glanced up at him so that she blushed. He brought with him a Dundee cake, baked to his mother’s recipe, and a bottle of French red wine, left in his cellar from before his father died, and they drank it and pronounced it interesting, although Sven and Fred agreed that you couldn’t beat a cold beer. They didn’t sing carols or play games, but there was something restful about the easy companionship of four people who felt warmly toward each other and were just grateful for good food and a day or two off work.
That being said, all day Alice feared the knock on the door, the inevitable confrontation. Mr. Van Cleve was a man used to getting his own way, after all, and there were few occasions more guaranteed to heat the blood than Christmas. And, indeed, the knock did come—though not as she had expected. Alice leaped up, peering out of the window, fighting for space with a giddy and frantically barking Bluey, but it was Annie who appeared on the stoop, as cross-looking as ever, though, given it was a holiday, Alice couldn’t really blame her.
“Mr. Van Cleve asked me to bring this,” she said, the words popping from her lips, like angry bubbles. She thrust an envelope at her.
Alice held onto Bluey, who wriggled to be free and jump up to greet this new visitor. He was the most hopeless of guard dogs, Margery would say fondly, all sound and no fury. The runt of the litter. Always stupidly glad to let everyone know how happy he was just to be alive.
Annie kept one wary eye on him as Alice took the envelope. “And he said to wish you a merry Christmas.”
“Couldn’t get up from the table to say it himself, though, huh?” called Sven, through the doorway. Annie scowled at him and Margery scolded him quietly.
“Annie, you’d be most welcome to stop for a bite to eat before you head out,” she called. “It’s a cold afternoon and we’d be happy to share.”
“Thank you. But I have to get back.” She seemed reluctant to stand close to Alice, as if by mere proximity she risked being infected by her predilection for deviant sexual practices.
“Well, thank you anyway for coming all the way out here,” said Alice. Annie looked at her suspiciously, as if she were making fun at her expense. She turned away and increased her pace back down the hill.
Alice closed the door and released the dog, who immediately leaped up and started barking at the window, as if he had completely forgotten whom he had just seen. Alice stared at the envelope.
“What d’you get then?”
Margery sat down at the table. Alice caught the glance that passed between her and Fred as she opened the card, an elaborate fixing of glitter and bows.
“He’ll be trying to win
her back,” said Sven, leaning back in his chair. “That’s a fancy romantic thing. Bennett’s trying to impress her.”
But the card was not from Bennett. She read the words.
Alice, we need you back in the house. Enough’s enough and my boy is pining. I know I did you a wrong and I’m prepared to make amends. Here’s a little something for you to buy yourself some fineries in Lexington and sent with the hope that it improves your feelings about your swift return home. This was always a fruitful measure with my dear late Dolores and I trust you will view it equally favorably.
We can all let bygones be bygones.
Your father,
Geoffrey Van Cleve
She looked at the card, from which a crisp fifty-dollar bill slid onto the tablecloth. She stared at it where it lay.
“That what I think it is?” said Sven, leaning forward to examine it.
“He wants me to go out and buy a nice dress. And then come home.” She placed the card on the table.
There was a long silence.
“You’re not going,” said Margery.
Alice lifted her head. “I wouldn’t go if he paid me a thousand dollars.” She swallowed, and stuffed the money back into the envelope. “I will try to find somewhere else to stay, though. I don’t want to get under your feet.”
“Are you kidding? You stay as long as you like. You’re no trouble, Alice. Besides, Bluey’s so taken with you it’s nice not to have to fight the dog for Sven’s attention.”
Only Margery noticed Fred’s sigh of relief.
“Right!” said Margery. “That’s settled. Alice stays. Why don’t I clear up? Then we can fetch Sven’s cinnamon cookies. If we can’t eat them, we can use them for target practice.”
27 December 1937
Dear Mr. Van Cleve
You have made quite clear on more than one occasion that you think I am a whore. But, unlike a whore, I can’t be bought.
I am therefore returning your money via Annie’s safekeeping.
Please could you arrange to have my things sent to Margery O’Hare’s home for the time being.
Sincerely
Alice
Van Cleve banged the letter down on his desk. Bennett glanced up from across the office and slumped a little, as if he had already guessed the contents.
“That’s it,” Van Cleve said, and screwed the letter into a ball. “That O’Hare girl has crossed the line.”
* * *
• • •
Ten days later the flyers went round. Izzy spotted one first, blowing across the road down by the schoolhouse. She dismounted and picked it up, brushing the snow from it so she could read it better.
Good citizens of Baileyville—please be
aware of the moral danger
posed by the Packhorse Library.
All right-minded citizens are
advised to decline its use.
Meeting House, Tuesday 6 p.m.
OUR TOWN’S MORAL RECTITUDE
IS AT STAKE.
“Moral rectitude. From a man who smashed a girl’s face halfway across his dining table.” Margery shook her head.
“What are we going to do?”
“Go to the meeting, I guess. We’re right-minded citizens after all.” Margery looked sanguine. But Alice noted the way her hand closed around the leaflet, and a tendon ran tight along her neck. “And I’m not letting that old—”
The door flew open. It was Bryn, his cheeks pink and his breath heavy from running.
“Miss O’Hare? Miss O’Hare? Beth’s took a fall on some ice and broke her arm up real bad.”
They bolted from the library and followed him up the snow-covered road, where they were met by the bulky figure of Dan Meakins, the local blacksmith, carrying a whey-faced Beth across his chest. She was clutching her arm and there were vivid dark shadows under each eye, as if she hadn’t slept for a week.
“Horse went down on a patch of ice just by the gravel pit,” Dan Meakins said. “Checked him over and I think he’s okay. But it looks like her arm took the full force of it.”
Margery stepped closer to peer at Beth’s arm and her heart sank. It was already swollen and dark red three inches above the wrist.
“You’re making a fuss,” said Beth, through clenched teeth.
“Alice, fetch Fred. We need to get her to the doctor at Chalk Ridge.”
* * *
• • •
An hour later the three of them stood in the little treatment room at Dr. Garnett’s as he carefully set the injured arm between two splints, humming quietly as he bound it. Beth sat with her eyes closed and her jaw tight, determined not to let the pain show, consistent with her upbringing as the sole girl in a family of brothers.
“I can still ride, though, right?” said Beth, when the doctor had finished. She held her arm in front of her as he looped the sling around her neck and tied it carefully.
“Absolutely not. Young lady, you need to spend at least six weeks resting it. No riding, no lifting things, no banging it against anything.”
“But I have to ride. How else am I supposed to get the books out?”
“I don’t know if you heard about our little library, Doctor—” Margery began.
“Oh, we’ve all heard about your library.” He allowed himself a wry smile. “Miss Pinker, at the moment the fracture appears clean, and I’m confident it should mend well. But I cannot stress enough how important it is to protect it from further injury. If an infection were to set in, then we could face having to amputate.”
“Amputate?”
Alice felt something wash over her, revulsion or fear, she wasn’t sure. Beth was suddenly wide-eyed, her previous composure evaporated.
“We’ll manage, Beth.” Margery sounded more convincing than she felt. “You just listen to the doctor.”
* * *
• • •
Fred drove as swiftly as he could but by the time they arrived back the meeting had already been going almost half an hour. Alice and Margery crept in at the back of the meeting hall, Alice tipping her hat low over her brow and pulling her hair loose around her face to try to hide the worst of the bruises. Fred followed just behind her, as he had done the whole day, like some kind of guard. The door closed softly behind them. Van Cleve was in such full flow that nobody even stopped to look when they entered.
“Don’t get me wrong. I am all for books and learning. My own son Bennett here was valedictorian at the school, as some of you may remember. But there are good books and there are books that plant the wrong kinds of ideas, books that spread untruths and impure thoughts. Books that can, if left unmonitored, cause divisions in society. And I fear we may have been lax in letting such books loose in our community without applying sufficient vigilance to protect our young and most vulnerable minds.”
Margery scanned the assembled heads, noting who was there, and who was nodding along. It was hard to tell from behind.
Van Cleve walked along the row of chairs at the front, shaking his head, as if the information he had to impart made him truly sorrowful. “Sometimes, neighbors, good neighbors, I wonder if the only book we should really be reading is the Good Book itself. Doesn’t that have all the facts and learning we need?”
“So what are you proposing, Geoff?”
“Well, ain’t it obvious? We have to shut this thing down.”
Faces in the crowd met each other, some shocked and concerned, others nodding their approval.
“I appreciate that there has been some good work done with sharing recipes and teaching the kiddies to read and all. And I thank you for that, Mrs. Brady. But enough’s enough. We need to take back control of our town. And we start with closing this so-called library. I will be putting this to our governor at the earliest opportunity, and I hope that as many of you as are right-minded ci
tizens out here will be supporting me.”
* * *
• • •
The crowd drained away half an hour later, uncharacteristically muted and hard to read, whispering to each other, a few casting curious glances at the women who stood together at the back. Van Cleve walked out deep in conversation with Pastor McIntosh and either failed to notice them, or had simply decided not to acknowledge that they were there.
But Mrs. Brady saw them. Still in the heavy fur hat she wore outside, she scanned the back of the crowd until she spied Margery and motioned to her to meet her over by the small stage. “Is it true? About the Married Love book?”
Margery held her gaze. “Yes.”
Mrs. Brady exclaimed softly under her breath. “Do you realize what you’ve done, Margery O’Hare?”
“It’s just facts, Mrs. Brady. Facts, to help women take control of their own bodies, their own lives. Nothing sinful about it. Hell, even our own federal court approved that book.”
“Federal courts.” Mrs. Brady sniffed. “You know as well as I do that down here we’re a long way from federal courts, or indeed anyone who cares a lick about what they decide. You know our little corner of the world is highly conservative, especially when it comes to matters of the flesh.” She folded her arms across her chest, and her words suddenly exploded out of her. “Darn it, Margery, I trusted you not to create a stir! You know how sensitive this project is. Now the whole town is alive with rumors about the kind of material you’re distributing. And that old fool is stirring fit to bust to make sure he gets his own way and shuts us down.”
“All I’ve done is be straight with people.”
“Well, a wiser woman than you would have realized that sometimes you have to play a politician’s game to get what you want. By doing what you’ve done, you’ve given him the very ammunition he was hoping for.”