pointless stops at lonely farmhouses and road junctions. Geraint sat deep in thought, oblivious of both the train’s discomfort and snail-like progress. His second lie lay black on his conscience. Flora thought he did not love her.
He loved her, all right. He loved her so much that every second, every passing mile that took him away from her felt like a stab to his already bruised heart. And she loved him. Flora’s words rang in his ears, circled his head, gnawed at his resolve. She loved him, despite his secret shame. She believed in him. She wanted him, no matter how maimed. She loved him. She loved him. She loved him. The words merged themselves into the rhythm of the metal wheels on the track.
And he loved her. Painfully. Deeply. Utterly. Brave Flora, who was willing to test herself to the limits, knowing that she might fail. Flora, who had not pleaded or attempted blackmail or even wept. Flora, who had loved him enough to let him go, though she believed he was wrong. Was he?
He was afraid of being a coward, yet here he was, running away from the most astounding, wonderful, perfect thing that had ever happened to him, and telling himself that he was being brave and noble for doing it. Looking down at the stripes on his arm, it occurred to him that he had never, not once, allowed himself to believe he would survive the war. Yes, he had talked of his political ambitions, but they had faded the moment the reality of life in the trenches became clear. He assumed he would die because he thought he did not deserve to live. He had acted as judge and jury on his own conduct before he’d even had a chance to prove himself, just as he’d judged Flora and her family before he’d ever met them. And he’d been wrong on that one.
Flora was not afraid of failing. He had failed her, was failing her, with every mile of railway track that stretched between him and the woman he loved. The woman he was wilfully surrendering for no other reason than that he was afraid! What was he more afraid of, his claustrophobia or losing her?
As the train clanked into another tiny station, Geraint grabbed his kit back and cap. Carpe diem , Flora was forever saying. ‘Bloody right, I’ll seize it,’ he told the bewildered guard as he jumped onto the platform.
* * *
The next morning, Flora sat at the dining room table in the lodge staring down at her notebook. She was attempting to prepare a list of tasks she must complete before she left for France, but the page remained stubbornly blank as her mind drifted back once more to those last moments with Geraint. He had made no attempt to kiss her goodbye. She was relieved, in a way, though it was one more piece of evidence that he didn’t love her. She had decided it would be too painful to seek him out again. Just as well, as she had learned this morning from one of the other men, ribbing her about needing a new boyfriend, that he had left yesterday. As she had lain in her bed last night, imagining all sorts of impossible scenarios in which they met in the bothy to make love for the last time, he was already on the train heading south.
She was picking up her pencil for the umpteenth time when the doorbell rang, swiftly followed by a rapid, insistent thumping on the door itself. Her mother was in the village folding yet more bandages. Her father was also out. Sighing heavily, Flora got up and pulled open the front door.
Geraint was haggard, unshaven and wild-eyed. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I need to talk to you. Urgently.’
‘But—you left.’
‘That’s what I need to talk to you about. Flora, for pity’s sake, I’ve hardly any time. Please.’
She stood aside to let him past, ushering him into the dining room. ‘Is something wrong? You look dreadful.’
‘I’ve been trying to get back here since yesterday evening. Missed the last train. Had to spend the night in the station.’
‘You’re shaking. Sit down. Can I get you some food? Something hot to
He loved her, all right. He loved her so much that every second, every passing mile that took him away from her felt like a stab to his already bruised heart. And she loved him. Flora’s words rang in his ears, circled his head, gnawed at his resolve. She loved him, despite his secret shame. She believed in him. She wanted him, no matter how maimed. She loved him. She loved him. She loved him. The words merged themselves into the rhythm of the metal wheels on the track.
And he loved her. Painfully. Deeply. Utterly. Brave Flora, who was willing to test herself to the limits, knowing that she might fail. Flora, who had not pleaded or attempted blackmail or even wept. Flora, who had loved him enough to let him go, though she believed he was wrong. Was he?
He was afraid of being a coward, yet here he was, running away from the most astounding, wonderful, perfect thing that had ever happened to him, and telling himself that he was being brave and noble for doing it. Looking down at the stripes on his arm, it occurred to him that he had never, not once, allowed himself to believe he would survive the war. Yes, he had talked of his political ambitions, but they had faded the moment the reality of life in the trenches became clear. He assumed he would die because he thought he did not deserve to live. He had acted as judge and jury on his own conduct before he’d even had a chance to prove himself, just as he’d judged Flora and her family before he’d ever met them. And he’d been wrong on that one.
Flora was not afraid of failing. He had failed her, was failing her, with every mile of railway track that stretched between him and the woman he loved. The woman he was wilfully surrendering for no other reason than that he was afraid! What was he more afraid of, his claustrophobia or losing her?
As the train clanked into another tiny station, Geraint grabbed his kit back and cap. Carpe diem , Flora was forever saying. ‘Bloody right, I’ll seize it,’ he told the bewildered guard as he jumped onto the platform.
* * *
The next morning, Flora sat at the dining room table in the lodge staring down at her notebook. She was attempting to prepare a list of tasks she must complete before she left for France, but the page remained stubbornly blank as her mind drifted back once more to those last moments with Geraint. He had made no attempt to kiss her goodbye. She was relieved, in a way, though it was one more piece of evidence that he didn’t love her. She had decided it would be too painful to seek him out again. Just as well, as she had learned this morning from one of the other men, ribbing her about needing a new boyfriend, that he had left yesterday. As she had lain in her bed last night, imagining all sorts of impossible scenarios in which they met in the bothy to make love for the last time, he was already on the train heading south.
She was picking up her pencil for the umpteenth time when the doorbell rang, swiftly followed by a rapid, insistent thumping on the door itself. Her mother was in the village folding yet more bandages. Her father was also out. Sighing heavily, Flora got up and pulled open the front door.
Geraint was haggard, unshaven and wild-eyed. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I need to talk to you. Urgently.’
‘But—you left.’
‘That’s what I need to talk to you about. Flora, for pity’s sake, I’ve hardly any time. Please.’
She stood aside to let him past, ushering him into the dining room. ‘Is something wrong? You look dreadful.’
‘I’ve been trying to get back here since yesterday evening. Missed the last train. Had to spend the night in the station.’
‘You’re shaking. Sit down. Can I get you some food? Something hot to
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