I'm so sorry that I haven't written anything for ages, I've been quite unwell and very busy, but I wanted to get back into writing. This is just a small offering, but I'm quite pleased with just writing anything really. And apologies to Joni Mitchell because I'm stealing her lyrics a bit.
Her arrival at his door was a surprise. A surprise he had hoped for, maybe, but a surprise none the less. She seemed a little out of breath, as if she had been running, or angry. He looked at her, standing on his doorstep, on the day they had both heard that war had broken, caught up by her sudden presence and his own surprise. She was still wearing her clothes from the garden party, he was in his shirt sleeves and trousers.
"I didn't know where else to go," she explained softly, when it transpired that words had failed him in his sudden confusion.
He stepped back quickly, holding the door open for her.
"Come in," he replied, and she was over the threshold, her arms folded, as if she was cold. Evening was coming in, and he closed the door behind them both.
He followed her into the sitting room, where she already sat, perched on the edge of the sofa. He sank quietly down beside her.
"Are you alright?" he asked her.
She was staring at the carpet on the floor. For a moment, he was embarrassed at it shabbiness, incongruously awkward in his own home. But then he realised she was only looking, not seeing.
"Isobel?" he asked. Tentatively, he reached out a few inches, brushing his hand over hers, trying to bring her back to him. The sense of grief he felt coming from her was something beyond the ordinary.
She looked at him as he touched her skin, but after a moment's surprise, did not shrink away. He looked at her face carefully as he slipped his hand into hers and they fingers wrapped gradually together.
"You can tell me," he told her softly, in little more than a whisper.
She gave a small sniff.
"Matthew wants to join up," she told him, "He doesn't want to stay here now that Mary won't marry him."
He was silent for a moment.
"He won't stay for my sake," she uttered hollowly.
Richard was quiet for a moment.
"Did he just tell you now?" he asked.
She nodded mutely.
"And what did you say?" he asked her.
"I told him not to go," she replied, "I begged him, I think."
She sniffed again, wiping her eyes slightly. His hand shifted, his arm wrapping gently around her shoulders to hold her, and she leant in against him.
"I was cruel," she told him.
"I don't believe you," he replied softly, squeezing her shoulder.
"I was," she insisted. "I told him that he doesn't know what he's getting into. It might be painful here, but the pain of war will tear him apart. He didn't seem to realise it. But it always, always does."
"I know," he replied, "I remember South Africa."
"Oh, Richard," she murmured, "I'm-..."
"Don't be sorry," he insisted, "You were exactly right."
They were silent.
"If I had the choice then," he told her, "I would have stayed for you, Isobel. If I'd known you then," he took a steadying breath, "If I'd ever laid eyes on you," Another breath. "I love you."
She looked at him slowly. She seemed to stop breathing. And then her hand moved, and took his other hand in hers. Raised it to her mouth, kissed his knuckles.
"I can be cruel," she whispered, looking into his face, "But let me be gentle with you."
He let out a ragged breath.
"Isobel."
She touched his cheek with her fingertips.
"Richard."
His hands came around her waist, as he turned, faced her.
"Come here," she whispered.
And he kissed her.
And, lying there on the little sofa in his front room, they proved, in spite of themselves that war does not have to tear apart.
End.