14November
Dear Diary,
Today I find myself ruminating on the tangled life of my wife, Emma, and the strange turn our small village of Brookfield, tucked away in the rolling hills of Yorkshire, has taken. My motherinlaw, Mrs. Whitaker, never lets me forget that Emma is a childless womanno longer even a proper woman, merely a halfwoman, as she snarls. Emma sighs, forcing a bitter smile, while the halfdeaf old neighbour, Agnes, leans in sharply and says, Dont mind her, dear. Only God knows what Hes doing. Youre still too young to think of children; He sees everything ahead of you.
Emma, eyes glistening with tears, whispers, Weve been married five years, Agnes. I long for a child. She rarely speaks such thoughts aloud; most of the ache sits quietly in her heart. Yesterday, she returned from the tenkilometre walk to her familys old grave, seeking solace in the company of the same crumbling cottage where she grew up. The wind howled, the village dogs bayed, and the sparrows chatteredthough barely any of the usual countryside sounds remain. Brookfield, once bustling, now leans like a tired old house toward the river, as if offering its final bow.
Emma trudged home to her husbands farm in the larger hamlet of Middleton. She had to leave Brookfield before dark, ever fearful of the night forest and open fieldsa childish terror she never quite outgrew. Six years ago, after the war claimed her father and her mother died young, Emma was left alone. She took a job as a milkmaid on the local cooperative farm. It was June when she met the man who would become John. It was her seventeenth summer, the first she spent working the farm, and though the endless milking made her arms ache, she loved the long walks to the fields.
One rainy morning a sudden downpour blocked her path. The sky turned gray, the clouds rolled in, and everything seemed to tilt. Emma ducked under a wooden shelter by the edge of the woods, sitting on the floorboards, wringing the water from her long dark hair. Through the slanted sheets of rain she saw a young man with black hair, his shirt soaked and trousers rolled up to his knees. He slipped under the shelter, grinned, and shouted, What a treat! Im Johnwho are you?
Emmas heart hammered as the rain hammered the roof. She recoiled, My names Emma. He teased, Got a cold? Need a warm? The rains knocked us both flat, but Im from the MTC. He kept joking, but his jokes grew more forward, and Emma, feeling both embarrassed and flattered, bolted from the shelter, sprinting through the misty woods as if the trees were closing in.
Later, John returned to the farm temporarily as a replacement herdsman. Emma watched him with a mixture of resentment and curiosity. He began courting her earnestly, and that first encounter left a lasting impression. When they married, Emma entered the union with hope, yet she could not picture what awaited her in Johns household and the unfamiliar village. Mrs. Whitaker proved a stern, illnatured motherinlaw, eager to shift duties onto her daughterinlaw while keeping a watchful eye on every chore.
Emma worked hard, her fingers calloused, but the constant criticism from Mrs. Whitaker stabbed at her pride. You came here with nothingno dowry, no kin, the old woman would mutter. After a year, then another, Emma still bore no child. Youre a barren hag, no longer even a proper woman, Mrs. Whitaker would snap. Whats the point of this house without grandchildren?
John tried to soothe his mother, but she only grew angrier, turning her gaze away from Emma unless a bowl was set before her. Still, Emma refused to surrender hope. She visited the village nurse herself, slipped away to the neighbouring parish priest to brew herbal tinctures rumored to aid fertility, and clung to every whisper of remedy.
Life moved on. The Whitaker household was not destitute, but postwar scarcity lingered. One chilly morning John brought home a halfbushel of damp grain, mumbling, Dont let them take it, Mum. His mother wailed, Dont you dare! Emma begged John not to get involved in such risky trades, yet he persisted, dragging odd scraps from the farm back home.
Sleep eluded Emma; she would sit on the edge of the bed, feet tucked under, awaiting her husbands return. One night, she gathered a skirt, a shirt, a heavy coat, and a pair of rubber boots, stepped onto the porch, and felt the November wind pierce her as the rain hammered the doors. She walked toward the village edge, hearing only the distant barking of the family dog, Finn, and the soft rustle of the thatch.
She stopped at an old farm building on the outskirts. The field beyond stretched dark and forebodingexactly the place shed feared as a child. She lingered, listening to the rains rhythm, when a light, lilting laugh drifted from the building. It was Katie, a girl from the nearby village who had once worked alongside Emma on the cooperative. Katie had been bright and talkative, dreaming of city life, but lately her cheer had faded, and the villagers whispered of a jealous husbands scorn.
Emma recognised Katies voice, then saw John standing there, laughing with a stranger. Her heart sank. The rain masked the conversation, but fragments reached her ears: plans of a child, promises of a future that didnt include her. Emma stood frozen, the cold seeping into her bones.
When John finally came home, the Whitakers were already in a state of panic. Two constables and the cooperative chairman arrived, dragging four dozen villagers to the council hall. The crowd murmured, sacks and bundles shuffling. By midday a truck arrived, loading the arrested men and womenamong them Johninto its back, bound for the town court.
Emma stared at the birch trees, where Katie stood apart, watching. The whole village trembled under the weight of the sudden raid. Mrs. Whitaker collapsed into mourning; Mr. Whitaker grew pale. Emma, sleepless for days, felt the world tilt.
Weeks later, Emma returned from the fields, carrying a bucket of milk, and found Katie seated at the kitchen table, hands folded on a swollen belly. Beside them sat the Whitakers, their faces solemn. Katie greeted Emma with a soft Good day, then turned to the Whitakers, who offered a handkerchief and began to weep. Weve been given ten years in prison, Emma, Mrs. Whitaker sobbed, for the crimes they say we committed. Theyll take the whole lot of us. Katie replied, They called us state criminals. Most got a tenyear sentence. Its all a mess. Emmas heart clanged; the shock was overwhelming.
Later, Katie, with fierce resolve, declared, John was going to marry me, then divorce me, but he never got the chance. Ill raise the child for him, and youll look after him, Emma. She spat out the words in a rush, eyes flicking between Emma and the Whitakers. Emma, sitting quietly, felt a cold numbness settle over her.
Winter deepened. The Whitakers fell ill; Katie, despite her own troubles, began to look after them. Emmas workload grew heavier, the farm demanding every ounce of her strength. She often found herself staring out the small window at the white woods beyond the river, remembering the village she could never truly leave. Her mothers voice echoed in her mind, asking what a woman should be when she only had two roleswife and second wife.
On the first of May, Emma baked pies, scooping flour into a castiron pot, while Katie slipped out for a village fête, her bright beads clinking. Mrs. Whitaker, cradling little EwanKaties sonspoke of how the child would be theirs, how the farm would sustain them all. Emma whispered, Perhaps this is Gods plan, that Ill raise a child not my own, that John will return, that well find peace. The Whitakers eyes glistened, Maybe so, love.
The days grew shorter, the cold more biting. Emmas motherinlaw grew weaker, Katies temper flared, and the farms burdens seemed endless. Yet Emma kept milking, tending the cows, and watching Finn chase the wind. She often wondered whether shed ever be free of this tangled web.
One evening, after finishing the milking, Emma slipped on the wet path, her boots squelching in the mud, and thought of leaving. She imagined boarding a train to Birmingham, where a textile mill might take her as a weaver, offering a new life and a small room in a dormitory. She had a few shillings saved, enough for a ticket, though she knew shed have to scrape together more for food. As she stepped into the dark lane, a horses hooves thundered. A stranger, a farmhand from the neighbouring hamlet, appeared, offering to help carry her sack. He handed her two tenpound notes, saying, Take these; youll need them more than I do. Emma watched him disappear into the night, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and guilt.
The next morning a train whistled, its steam rose like fresh hope. Emma boarded, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and resolve, ready to leave the past behind. As the carriage rattled away, she whispered to herself, I am choosing my own path.
Looking back, I realize that the weight of expectations, the sting of jealousy, and the burden of duty have taught me to value honesty above all. In the end, the lesson I carry forward is simple: one must not let the shadows of others dictate the shape of ones own life.
