So None Will Find Me Sighing
by Maya Ferguson Klinowski
Willam and I stood in the church in Liverpool and declared our vows four years ago. It was a simple wedding. Our parents were there, and a few friends and some flowers, no roses or violets. Willam was my best friend. We had spent every waking moment together since the age of six. He was the boy across the street and both of our parents thought our union was very reasonable. It was reasonable because Willam told everyone he wanted to marry a boy.
I never fell in love with him. He was in love with a man named Jason. It was a strange thing. He never told anyone except me. I told him that he shouldn't tell anyone else and that I would never tell a single soul. He would smoke cigarettes with Jason while I cleaned and baked delicious cakes. He never lied to me. He told me he was in love. I didn’t mind.
It was a comfortable life. Each morning, I’d get up and make eggs and ham for him. We’d drink milky tea and talk until he went to work. Then I’d clean up the house, make the beds and run errands. In the spring, I gardened; in the winter, made quilts. I read philosophy books and the newspaper every day. Most nights, we’d eat dinner together, and he’d go out drinking with Jason. On Friday evenings, we played cards and talked about his job and all the places we wanted to visit someday. He bought me a record player for our two-year anniversary because he knew that listening to music made me happier than anything else in the world. We both kept the other happy.
******
In the summer of 1938, I was entertaining some of my friends. Willam was out. We talked all afternoon. Mary brought her older sister Suze to the gathering. She was thirty-three years old and unmarried. Mary said it was because she was a slob and couldn’t cook to save her life. I found her glamourous and full of life. Everyone loved my house because they could be lazy while I handed out cakes and we listened to music on the record player.
Suze made everyone energetic. Mary shot angry looks across the room at her all afternoon and left early, saying she had a headache. Suze stayed after everyone else left and sat close to me. After some scavenging, she unearthed old scotch from my cabinet. We sipped it until the world went fuzzy at the edges, and the music got discordant. She held my hand, touched my leg, whispering little useless secrets to me. I laughed. Everything tingled and smelt sharp. The alcohol and her closeness inspired such warmness in my chest, unmatchable even by Billie Holiday’s voice.
Suze left late, after Willam came home. She stayed with her sister only a few other times, but every time she did, she came to my house. I spilt my deepest secrets to this perfect, transient woman.
******
Then the war started, and I talked very little, to anyone. The radio and the paper got loud and dismal. Nihilists wrote philosophy in red ink. I read and understood. Willam left to go fight, and the house got messy. Teacups sat on the counter for weeks and the cupboards ran out of food. I sat in the rocking chair most days until two or three, reading the perpetually gloomy newspaper. I waited for letters from Willam that never arrived. I wondered if he had died. It took most of my energy to hold back murky tears, so I stayed as still as I could. The world was loud, screaming. I was completely quiet.
I tried to entertain a few times, but faking a smile in front of my friends convinced no one. We all knew we were pretending to have hope. We all knew we were wilted. Even music lost its appeal.
On September 6th, Mary’s husband died. She cried for a few minutes at my doorstep. Mostly though, she was numb and quiet—muffled. She wasn’t the first to lose a husband. Heather had lost hers as well. The letters they sent were yellow with tiny print, industrial. To all of us, the letters smelled like fear.
I was silent that night. The radio blared, but I couldn’t hear it.
The Women's Land Army advertisements had been in the paper everyday. They made it clear that anyone who could work, should. It supported the troops and would lead the Allies to a joy-filled victory. It was patriotic work. So I sent a letter.
******
I took the train to the little hostel that the women affectionately called Chippy. The place was gorgeous. Whitewash was peeling off the cold brick walls; dust and mud were sludged against them. There were little lagoons where birds lived, and from which cows kept their distance. The women’s faces were dirty, and they smelled of manure and sweat; they were scratched and bruised and muscular from work. Soap was always running low, and most nights, we went without it. There were violets and daisies and lilies and a big willow tree. There were even poppies in the marsh.
All ten of us slept in two big rooms. We had little beds with thin blankets and almost equally thin mattresses. On the walls, we nailed pictures of our men at war. Some of us drew little flowers on the rickety bed frames with pens, or charcoal from the woodburning stove. We wore the same uniforms: a warm coat, two undershirts, a stiff working shirt and a pair of overalls. Things were simple and hard and perfect. We woke up early, always ready for the next day.
******
In the spring, I met Laura. She was mad and straightforward and usually joking. She milked the cows quickly and loved to taste the cream before any of the rest of us could separate it.
The first question she asked everyone was who they were. She asked straightforwardly. Although it was as if you couldn’t just tell her your name.
The first time she asked, I stuttered a little,
“I-, I’m Edith.”
“You seem like an Ed. Can I call you Ed?” she pondered, happily.
“Sure,” I murmured, unsure, but liking the sound of Ed. At least off her tongue.
She nodded and then walked towards the dusty cattle barn. Then, as if forgetting something, she turned around.
“I’m Laura, by the way.” She grinned.
After that, we spent most of our time together. She taught me the how to milk and groom the cows without upsetting them. She told me to speak loudly to them, with an aggressive tone. She said to hit them if they tried to kick you or wouldn’t move out of your way.
I taught her how to plant peas and corn. I taught her how to dig just the right depth for each seed and where to position them, so they’d grow tall. She loved the gentleness of seeds.
After long days of work, we had long conversations late into the night. We talked about our families. She had a husband to whom she never wanted to return. Her face was grave when she mentioned him. At the thought of him, she seemed to shrink into herself. He used to hit her when she did things he didn’t like, and when he left to fight, she was relieved.
I told her about Willam. I told how I missed him, but I had never loved him. I told her about Billie Holiday and my record player. I told her about Suze. We sang together.
She asked me what I was like before joining the Land Army. It was hard to respond, because I was what you’d suppose a young wife who lived in London would be like. I was quiet and sad. I liked who I was now much better.
******
All summer we cared for the cattle. We flipped the fertile earth, mixing it into itself. We taught each other how to use ploughs and bean filters. We watered and weeded. We lived for the cows and the promise of corn in the fall. We woke with the sun and the morning glories. We forgot we were victims of war.
In September, the harvest started and the hard work got even harder. Every week, on Wednesday, men in big trucks came and took portions of our corn. We slaughtered a cow every Tuesday morning. The wooden barn walls became permeated with the smell of blood. The cows huddled together to stay warm.
Laura and I stared across the sunlit orange lagoon every evening as the sun went down. Her stillness in the frigid air made her look like an ice queen at the winter fair. Willow seeds floated down and bleached her hair white, contrasting its usual dark hazel richness. The sun would set, and she was always humming. I held my legs together against the insensitivity of the bitter wind, but my chest was warm. I knew there was something different about her. She took my breath away. The way she brushed her hair out of her eyes. The distinct tone of her voice that darted through little melodies of her own creation.
One particularly cold evening, she held my hands, kissing each little scratch or sore spot she found.
“They look like roses,” she smiled, “so pink and delicate.”
In that moment, I said I love you, silently.
******
In October, Laura boiled water for tea on the little wood stove. She reached for the light tin cups from the old cupboard, exhaling. It was late, nearly eleven o’clock, and all of the others had gone to bed. Her hair followed her around the kitchen. If each strand was a person, attempting, as young girls often do, to fit in, they were always falling just short.
“It’s cold out,” she sighed.
I listened to her footsteps and gentle breathing, not feeling responsive.
The room was full and heavy. It was very quiet.
The kettle screeched. Gracefully, with strong hands, she lifted it and poured the steaming water into the teapot. She nestled it into the tea cozy that Uma had made in the spring.
She hummed Billie Holiday’s “Willow Weep for Me”. Her voice danced. She tapped her finger on the stained cupboard. She put a sugar cube into each of our cups. We never had sweet tea. The air was cold, even inside, and it was dark, but little sparks touched the surfaces of each inch of exposed skin.
There were sparks behind my eyes as she handed me a cup.
The sweet smelling steam reached my nose just as she kissed me.
******
The next morning, it was warm for late October. I went out to the lagoon before Laura woke up.
The morning was dark blue; heavy stars glowed, hanging on to night. The sun was just beginning to rise, painting little purple wrinkles in the sky.
I prayed to a god I didn’t believe in, to know who I was. The air replied, youthful against my cheeks.
The lagoon reflected its light on to me. It was the light of last night’s stars, and of the morning sun combined.