The Sand Through Her Fingers
The silence in the cottage was thick as treacle, broken only by the crackling of logs in the hearth. Margaret Whitaker, a woman with tired, deeply lined features, watched her son with a heavy heart as he silently packed the last of his things into a canvas sack. Tomorrow, he would leave for the army.
“Tom, my boy,” she finally whispered, her voice tight with suppressed pain, “tell me, what do you see in that that flighty girl? She doesnt care a farthing for you! Looks down her nose at you, yet you cant think of anyone else. Plenty of other lasses in the villagetake Emily Dawson, for instance. Bright, hardworking, sweet on you, but you pay her no mind. As if the sun rises and sets on that Lily alone.”
Tom, tall and broad-shouldered with a stubborn jaw and kind, now-frowning eyes, didnt turn. His fingers worked the knot with practised ease.
“I dont want Emily, Mum. My minds made up. Ive loved Lily since we were children. If she wont have me then I wont marry at all. Save your breath.”
“Shell break your heart, Tommy! I know it in my bones!” his mother cried. “Pretty? Aye, devil take her but cold as frost, wild as the wind. She belongs in the city, not trailing her skirts round our village.”
At last, Tom turned. His gaze was unreadable, a wall of resolve. “Enough. The matters closed.”
Meanwhile, in the neighbouring cottage, thick with cheap perfume and youthful restlessness, Lily stood before her mirror, putting the final touches to her evening ritualdarkened lashes, painted lips. Her reflection was bold, daring, screaming to be noticed, swept away from this place.
“Lily, wherere you off to, dolled up like that?” her mother called from the kitchen. “Dancing again? And after, I suppose, carousing till dawn? At least take Thomas. A fine ladfinished college, sharp as a tack. Hired builders, working with his father on that house. Says its for his bride. And all he sees is you, moonstruck as a schoolboy.”
Lily scoffed, turning to admire herself. “Your Thomas is a dull clod. Building a house Youths only once, Mum! Youve got to live, have fun, but he slaves like an ox, never goes anywhere, never takes a breath. When youths gone, therell be nothing to remember. I dont want him, you hear? Not in a thousand years. Dont even hint at it.”
And like a butterfly, she fluttered out, leaving behind a cloud of restless fragrance.
That autumn was golden and bitter. Thomas, diploma in hand, received his call-up. His parents threw a modest but warm farewell. Lily and her mother cameneighbours, after all.
Thomas, stiff in his new suit, seized a moment. His heart hammered in his throat as he cornered Lily in the hallway.
“Lily” His voice betrayed him, trembling. “May I write to you? All the lads write to their sweethearts. And I dont have one. Would you be mine? Even just in letters?”
Lily looked at him with the indulgence one might spare a sweet but tiresome pup. She considered. “Write if you like. If Im in the mood, Ill reply. If not, dont take offence. Fair?”
It was enough. His face lit with such hope that Lily had to glance away. For a moment, she almost felt ashamed.
For a while, she answered his neat soldiers letters. Then she fled to the city, chasing a teaching degree. Grey village life faded behind her, along with those naive envelopes. The correspondence died abruptly.
Her mother sighed, quietly hoping shed come to her senses, wait for Thomas, settle down. But Lily wouldnt hear of it.
“Ill graduate, marry a cultured city man! And neverneverreturn to that godforsaken backwater!” she shrieked when her mother dared defend the provincial suitor.
Fate laughed cruelly. The first examcompositionshe failed spectacularly. The bitter irony? No one to blame. Their village school had been perpetually understaffed. English and French were taught by one teacherMadame Lefèvre. Fluent in French, her English was shaky. Lily, like her classmates, knew neither well.
But Lily wasnt one to wallow. The citys lights dazzled, and she soon found solace in the arms of charming, cynical Edward. Eddie, a final-year law student, lived alone in a three-bedroom flat while his parents worked up north.
Lily moved in swiftly. To avoid begging her mother for money, she took a job in a factory canteen. Not as a cookshe pushed a trolley of pies through the workshops, enduring the workers lingering stares.
In Eddies flat, she played house: scrubbed the neglected rooms, cooked hearty stews, smuggled pies home. She fancied herself almost a wife. A home, a promising man. Perhaps a child. She adored Eddie to dizziness, to breathlessness. He embodied the glamorous city life she craved.
She stayed nearly a year. Then, one rainy evening, Eddie sprawled on the sofa and said tonelessly, “Lily, funs over. You bore me. Pack up. My parents return soon.”
Something inside her snapped and froze. But pride and city-taught hardness kept her composed. Without fuss, she packed her old suitcase and left for a friends. Only when the door closed did silent, bitter tears fall.
Weeks later, nausea struck. The doctors verdict was blunt: “Pregnant. Too late for an abortion.”
Lily wouldnt dream of it. This was Eddies childa piece of him. Then came her mothers letter, mentioning Thomass return. Hed asked after her.
A desperate, wicked plan formed. Rush home. Pose as the devoted fiancée, marry Thomas. If refused, at least shed have her mother when the baby came.
Thomas welcomed her like a queen. He asked no questions, demanded no explanations. His love was blind, forgivingexactly what she needed. That first evening, burning with shy pride, he showed her the house hed built for her. It was beautifulsolid, smelling of fresh timber and hope.
She barely needed to seduce himhe was already at her feet. She stayed the night. A lavish wedding followed two weeks later. Thomas glowed. He noticed nothing: not the neighbours whispers, not Emilys venomous smirks, not even his mothers frown at the brides suspiciously quick bump.
“A strapping lad!” Thomas boasted. “Growing by the hour!”
Lily gave birth in the city, bribing a doctor to claim premature birth. Fate relentedthe boy was small, just six pounds. The paid-off doctor shrugged: “Seven months, clearly.”
“There is a God,” Lily thought, drifting under sedation, relief flooding her for the first time in months.
Little George grew calm and obedient. Thomas adored him, took him to the farm, sat him on tractors, taught him mechanics. Even her sceptical mother-in-law grew fond, spoiling him relentlessly.
Thomas worked tirelessly. His small farm thrived. He returned late, exhausted but content.
Lily kept house and raised their son. Outwardly, a perfect family. Inside, she remained cold toward Thomas. She still loved Eddie, seeing Thomas only as a kind, dull provider. She played the loving wife but refused more childrena silent vow to her past.
But secrets never stay buried.
George was eight. A bright summers day. Playing in a friends yard, he fell into an unfinished cellar pit where a sharp metal rod stood upright. No one saw how it happened. No cry was heardjust sudden silence, then other boys screams.
Lily, rushing out, nearly lost her mind. Her George lay at the pits bottom, a rusty rod jutting from his small chest.
Thomas arrived first, flying across fields with the village medic. Together, they pulled the rod free. Thomas carried his son up, tears streaming down his strong, unbreakable face.
At the hospital, George needed urgent blood. Tests were taken.
Thenthe thunderclap.
“Why hide hes adopted?” The doctors voice was ice. “Your blood doesnt match. The boys AB negativerare. Without a donor in twelve hours, hell die. Weve none in stock. No chance of finding one.”
The world narrowed to the operating doors. Lily didnt care if Thomas left her. Only George mattered.
In the corridor, Thomas gripped her shoulders. Not angerdesperation burned in his eyes. “The fatherwhere is he? Address? Name! Speak, damn it! Our sons dying! My son! Only he can save him! Ill beg on my knees! Anything!”
Sobbing, Lily gave Eddies details. Thomas moved fastan army friend, now in the police, had Eddies work number within the hour.
