Radio mirror (July-Dec 1943)

42 we'd danced to the juke box on Saturday nights. I knew at last that I would have to go away. On the Say that Terry was sentenced to life imprisonment I crept out of Marston forever, determined to go where no one would know me, where I would be allowed to forget. I chose Fleetwood because the name sounded pretty to me as I ran my finger down the long list in a timetable. It was far enough away so that no one would know who I was. I didn't have much money, but I knew I'd manage somehow. It didn't matter what happened to me then, how I lived — just so that I got far, far away from Marston and everything that Marston meant to me! FLEETWOOD was like heaven. The -* streets were wide and cool and shady, and the rows of houses had a welcoming look. If people bothered to look at me at all, it was with a friendly, impersonal curiosity. I found a room almost at once with Mrs. Lambert, whose son was Rev. Paul Lambert, the United Chapel minister. I liked them both on sight. Mrs. Lambert was a motherly sort of person with snowy white hair and small, plump hands that made fluttery little gestures when she talked. Her son was going to be plump, too, when he got a bit older, and his twinkling, kindly blue eyes were duplicates of hers. They were my first friends in Fleetwood, Paul and Mrs. Lambert, and for a while they were my only ones. I was shy of making friends with strangers, now. But it seemed as if my luck had really changed. Mrs. Lambert took me to see old Aunt Ella Eames, as everyone in town called her. Aunt Ella Eames lives on the edge of town in a lonely little brown house called Pine Ridge Farm, and she had been Fleetwood's only dressmaker for years. Now she was old, and nearly ready to retire, and she was more than happy to welcome a capable assistant who could gradually take over the work. Two weeks later I moved out to Pine Ridge Farm with Aunt Ella, and soon I found that I could sing again in time to the swift, busy humming of my sewing machine. I worked very hard, because I soon found out that you can't work and brood at the same time. It was a little lonely at Pine Ridge Farm, especially in the evenings, because Aunt Ella seldom went out and few people came except those who wanted a fitting or those who were going to discuss whether a brown worsted dress or a blue serge would be more practical for little Susan, or if it was worth while making over Pa's winter suit for little Johnny. To everyone who seemed to care I told the story I had so carefully rehearsed on my way to Fleetwood — the story of how I'd married my childhood sweetheart, how he had died, how I had felt that in my grief I couldn't bear my home town any longer. It was pure fiction, but I felt justified — I would have felt justified in doing al most anything that would help me to escape the past. I know now that I should have told the truth, but I hated the truth so, I was so ashamed of it! I was happy in Fleetwood. The days flowed along in a smooth, even course. I had work to do that I liked, and even if I was shy of making friends, everyone was pleasant and friendly. I got so that I went to church sometimes on Sundays — Paul's church — and I even began to wonder if they'd let me join the choir. I knew I had a nice voice, and I'd loved singing in the choir at home. About five months after I came to Fleetwood Aunt Ella Eames decided to move to a nearby town to live with a grandson, to help take care of his children while he and his wife worked in the defense plant. And I took over Aunt Ella's tiny home, and her business. I knew that I could manage the small rent Aunt Ella asked, and now I felt secure enough here to let myself take root a little. I'd almost forgotten Terry by then, both the pleasure and the pain of him. I remembered him only when it was forcibly brought to my attention that I was a woman set apart from other "No Other Can I Love" was Actionized from an original radio story entitled "You Are Close to My Heart," first broadcast on My True Story Program, heard daily at 3:15, over the Blue. women — when I made party dresses for other girls, for instance, and knew a great desire to dance again in a man's arms and smile up into his eyes. Or when I made Ann Baxter's trousseau, and knew with a heavy heart, as I sewed fine lace on filmy nightgowns or hemmed gay kitchen aprons, that such things would never be for me. Or when I made maternity dresses for Jane Sparks and felt the almost intolerable longing that sometimes comes to every woman to hold a baby of her own in her arms. Once in a great while I would think: suppose these people find out who I am? Suppose they learn that I am married to Terry Cassis? Suppose I have to run away again, and find a new place, and then run from there, too — run away all my life long? Then| when I thought those things, I would sit very still, with fear a dark, un wholesome visitor beside me, dreading the very thinking of what might happen. Those times were almost like — well, like a rehearsal for the later days when I crouched there by the window at Pine Ridge Farm, yearning to go back to the everyday world, and not daring to. But as time wore on my fears grew less and less until they almost vanished. And with their going, I realized something else. I was terribly lonely — lonely, but still a little cautious, a little shy, a little afraid of being rebuffed. I wanted to hold out my hand in friendship, but I didn't quite dare. What I needed was someone to extend a hand to me, wholeheartedly, first. I needed a woman friend my own age, and maybe, even, I admitted to myself sometimes, a man friend, too. I had come to that stage — the stage of wanting companionship — when Lee and Derek Lester came to Fleetwood. I met Lee first. I had walked in to town for my groceries that day because my bicycle tires needed air and I hadn't the energy to pump them. I was coming home, my arms full of bundles, when an ancient car tooted at me and then pulled over. There was a girl at the wheel — a sunny-haired, sunny-smiling girl I'd never seen before. "Hello!" she called. "Want a lift? You've got a lot to carry." Oh, it sounded so good, that friendly voice! So good that before I stopped to think about it I was in the car beside her. "You live in the little brown hduse, don't you?" she asked. "I've seen you out in back a couple of times. I'm Lee Lester. My brother Derek and I have rented the old Macalister farm next to yours. We just moved in last week, and Derek's working like a Trojan to be ready in time to get a crop in. Do you farm that place all by yourself?" I shook my head. "No — I just live there. I'm a dressmaker." Lee's smile broadened. "Oh, then maybe you'd give me some advice. I'm absolutely shameless about getting free advice out of everyone, because were trying so hard to make a go of the farm, and I do want to help Derek. He was invalided out of the Army, and he has to get his start all over again, you see. I'm trying to fix the house up a little — curtains and chair covers and things — but I'm an awful dub at sewing. Of course if you're too busy. . . " She let her voice trail away in a question mark. I knew then just how lonely I really had been. Suddenly Pine Ridge Farm, which had seemed a haven of refuge, was a dungeon, a place where I was imprisoned. I could have fun out of life again — and I wanted it so badly! "Of course," I told her. "Of course — I'd love to help you. I'll tell you what you do — you put my portable sewing machine in your car now, when you let me off, and take it home. Then I'll come around after supper and help you — or tomorrow if you'd rather." Lee hesitated for a moment. "Have you any plans for supper or — company coming?" or (Continued on page 90) I