Follow Up, The Epilogue. :-D
Part I
Part II
Butterflies are Free
Epilogue
But real life isn't like stories, and nothing is over that easily.
Two weeks later Polly and Mal walk into Munz on a market day afternoon. It feels strange to be walking in plain sight again. Even after they'd crossed the border they'd been careful, skirting the villages rather than knocking on inn doors to beg a meal and risk having to tell their story. It's overwhelming in its own, frenetic way, to be surrounded by so many milling, shifting people. But no-one looks at them, no more than they look at other soldiers, anyway, as they walk through the crowded streets, making their way towards a well-known inn.
They slip into the kitchen through the back door, and a serving girl looks up, surprised.
“You gen’lemen should be comin’ in the front,” she says, a trace of fear in her voice.
“The proprietors know me, dear,” Polly says. “Could you get Mrs. Perks for us?”
the girl opens and closes her mouth a couple of times, shocked, perhaps, by the “gen’leman’s” presumption, and then hurries out of the kitchen.
A few moments later, they can hear Shufti outside the door.
“Now, honestly, Lina,” they hear her say, as she pushes the door open. “We’ll have this sorted out in a minute, there is no need to get hysteri-”
“Shufti?”
An earthenware jug crashes to the floor and, against all rules of narrative causality, fails to break, or even chip. It does, however, spill its contents onto the floor.
“Merciful heavens,” Shufti breathes, not paying any attention to the apple cider currently soaking into the floorboards. “I thought you both were dead.”
Polly shakes her head, as Shufti steps over the spreading puddle of apple cider, pulling her sister-in-law into her arms.
“We got the letter,” she murmurs. “With the black border and your name filled in on a line. It came last week.” She lets Polly go, only to wrap her arms around Mal. “Sit down, both of you,” she says. “Let me get you something to eat.”
Shufti, who has always been like this, bustles around the kitchen pulling bread and sausages and coffee and tea out of the cupboards like a woman possessed.
Over the first real meal either of them have had in more than a month, they tell Shufti the story in turns. It doesn’t take long since, by unspoken agreement, they are both leaving out the gruesome bits.
“So that’s what happened,” Mal finishes, draining her third cup of coffee. “How’s the baby?”
Shufti blinks.
“Sh-she's out for a walk with Paul and Jack and Tilly,” she stammers. “After what you’ve been through, I’m amazed you even remembered I was pregnant.”
“We talked about it on Polly’s birthday,” Mal comments. “I threatened to line the kids up next year and make them sing for her.”
“What a lovely idea,” Shufti answers, although her smile is looking a little strained around the edges. “Look,” she says, dropping the pretence. “I may not be clever, but I’m not stupid either. I know it was worse than you’re saying...”
Polly sighs.
“It was, Shuft. But it’s done and over-” she comes up short, realizing that Mal’s own words are coming out of her mouth. “We got out,” she finishes. “You don’t need to worry about it.”
Much later, after Paul and the kids have come home, after dinner in the inn has been served and tidied away, after Polly’s father has wrapped her in his frail arms and cried against her shoulder because he’d thought he’d never see her again... After all of that, Polly finds herself sitting beside Mal on the edge of a double bed that is, possibly, slightly larger than the cell they’d escaped from a month earlier. The window is open to the warm night air, morning glories spilling out of a window box on the sill. The new moon is sinking towards the horizon.
She isn’t sure how she feels about this. She hasn’t undressed at all in more than six weeks. The clothes that she’s wearing now are filthy beyond belief, stained with dirt and grass, but also with blood, offal, urine. The white shirt and breaches have long since turned to something else. She wants to shed them like a skin that’s grown too small, leave them behind (burn them), forget what happened.
But she can’t. The thought of undressing in front of someone - in front of Mal who, two months ago had kissed her mouth and unfastened her buttons in the dark - the thought of making herself that... that vulnerable feels like inviting more pain, and she’s not sure if she can bring herself to do it.
None the less, she lifts one foot and begins unlacing her boot, letting it drop to the floor. She jumps a little, despite herself, at the thump it makes on the boards.
“It’s okay,” Mal murmurs, reaching out to brush her hand lightly over Polly’s. Her boots are already on the floor, but she hasn’t even taken her threadbare socks off yet.
Polly swallows, unlacing her other boot and letting it drop.
At least she doesn’t jump this time.
Her socks have holes in the heels and toes now. She pulls off one sock, then the other, letting them fall to the floor. She wiggles her naked toes and Mal chuckles, draining some of the tension out of the room.
Not all of it, though. Not by a long shot.
“It’s... It’s funny,” Mal murmurs.
Polly turns to look at her, and sees a smile that isn’t really a smile, dark eyes gone too bright.
“I can’t do it.”
Polly tugs at her own jacket.
“Clothes?” she asks.
Mal nods in confirmation, her mouth quirking, full of rue and regret.
“I know,” Polly says. “It just... It doesn’t feel safe anymore, does it?”
“No,” Mal admits, looking away, blinking rapidly.
Polly carefully unfastens the buttons of her jacket, shrugging it off and letting it drop. She reaches out to take Mal’s hand. She holds it gently, not wanting to squeeze, not wanting to bring up bad memories.
When Mal turns to look at her again, she manages a smile, for all of a moment, before her eyes spill over.
Polly can barely reach for Mal before her own tears start falling. She presses her lips against the dark fuzz of Mal’s hair.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry this had to happen.”
“Not your fault,” Mal murmurs against Polly’s shoulder. “None of this is your fault.”
For a long time they cling to each other, shaking and sobbing, finally able to grieve for what they have been through. In the end, long after the moon has set, they let themselves sleep, still dressed in their filthy clothes, but tangled in each other’s arms.
Polly wakes once, during the night, at the sound of boots in the hallway outside. The heavy tread sends her heart racing, her eyes flying open in the dark, but the starlight outside the open window reminds her of where she is, reminds her that it really is finished. As her breath begins to slow, she feels Mal take her hand.
“It woke you, too?” Mal whispers.
“Yeah,” Polly answers. She pulls Mal closer in the dark. “It’s over, though, right?”
Gentle fingers stroke Polly’s cheek.
“Exactly.”
The next time they wake, it is to mid-morning sunlight streaming through the open window.
Polly meets Mal’s eyes, and they smile at each other, uncertainly, wrapping their arms around each other to assure themselves that they aren’t dreaming.
Polly sits up, stretching her stiff joints, wincing as they pop and snap. She catches sight of something at the window.
“Mal, look,” she murmurs.
Mal sits up, following Polly’s gaze.
There is a butterfly, blue as lightening, blue as a summer sky, fluttering around the dark cups of blooming morning glories.
“Bath?” Polly suggests, tentatively, still following the butterfly with her eyes.
Mal’s mouth quirks.
“I think I might be up for trying that, today.”
Polly smiles, her first real smile in what feels like a life time. She is surprised to discover something she thought she’d lost. She can feel a spark inside her again, can feel it growing as Mal takes her hand.
They watch, both of them hardly daring to breathe, as the butterfly flits from blossom to blossom, and then flutters off into the blue.
Free.
Just like them.
***
Comments? Please? I would like that very, very much. :-)
Part II
Butterflies are Free
Epilogue
But real life isn't like stories, and nothing is over that easily.
Two weeks later Polly and Mal walk into Munz on a market day afternoon. It feels strange to be walking in plain sight again. Even after they'd crossed the border they'd been careful, skirting the villages rather than knocking on inn doors to beg a meal and risk having to tell their story. It's overwhelming in its own, frenetic way, to be surrounded by so many milling, shifting people. But no-one looks at them, no more than they look at other soldiers, anyway, as they walk through the crowded streets, making their way towards a well-known inn.
They slip into the kitchen through the back door, and a serving girl looks up, surprised.
“You gen’lemen should be comin’ in the front,” she says, a trace of fear in her voice.
“The proprietors know me, dear,” Polly says. “Could you get Mrs. Perks for us?”
the girl opens and closes her mouth a couple of times, shocked, perhaps, by the “gen’leman’s” presumption, and then hurries out of the kitchen.
A few moments later, they can hear Shufti outside the door.
“Now, honestly, Lina,” they hear her say, as she pushes the door open. “We’ll have this sorted out in a minute, there is no need to get hysteri-”
“Shufti?”
An earthenware jug crashes to the floor and, against all rules of narrative causality, fails to break, or even chip. It does, however, spill its contents onto the floor.
“Merciful heavens,” Shufti breathes, not paying any attention to the apple cider currently soaking into the floorboards. “I thought you both were dead.”
Polly shakes her head, as Shufti steps over the spreading puddle of apple cider, pulling her sister-in-law into her arms.
“We got the letter,” she murmurs. “With the black border and your name filled in on a line. It came last week.” She lets Polly go, only to wrap her arms around Mal. “Sit down, both of you,” she says. “Let me get you something to eat.”
Shufti, who has always been like this, bustles around the kitchen pulling bread and sausages and coffee and tea out of the cupboards like a woman possessed.
Over the first real meal either of them have had in more than a month, they tell Shufti the story in turns. It doesn’t take long since, by unspoken agreement, they are both leaving out the gruesome bits.
“So that’s what happened,” Mal finishes, draining her third cup of coffee. “How’s the baby?”
Shufti blinks.
“Sh-she's out for a walk with Paul and Jack and Tilly,” she stammers. “After what you’ve been through, I’m amazed you even remembered I was pregnant.”
“We talked about it on Polly’s birthday,” Mal comments. “I threatened to line the kids up next year and make them sing for her.”
“What a lovely idea,” Shufti answers, although her smile is looking a little strained around the edges. “Look,” she says, dropping the pretence. “I may not be clever, but I’m not stupid either. I know it was worse than you’re saying...”
Polly sighs.
“It was, Shuft. But it’s done and over-” she comes up short, realizing that Mal’s own words are coming out of her mouth. “We got out,” she finishes. “You don’t need to worry about it.”
Much later, after Paul and the kids have come home, after dinner in the inn has been served and tidied away, after Polly’s father has wrapped her in his frail arms and cried against her shoulder because he’d thought he’d never see her again... After all of that, Polly finds herself sitting beside Mal on the edge of a double bed that is, possibly, slightly larger than the cell they’d escaped from a month earlier. The window is open to the warm night air, morning glories spilling out of a window box on the sill. The new moon is sinking towards the horizon.
She isn’t sure how she feels about this. She hasn’t undressed at all in more than six weeks. The clothes that she’s wearing now are filthy beyond belief, stained with dirt and grass, but also with blood, offal, urine. The white shirt and breaches have long since turned to something else. She wants to shed them like a skin that’s grown too small, leave them behind (burn them), forget what happened.
But she can’t. The thought of undressing in front of someone - in front of Mal who, two months ago had kissed her mouth and unfastened her buttons in the dark - the thought of making herself that... that vulnerable feels like inviting more pain, and she’s not sure if she can bring herself to do it.
None the less, she lifts one foot and begins unlacing her boot, letting it drop to the floor. She jumps a little, despite herself, at the thump it makes on the boards.
“It’s okay,” Mal murmurs, reaching out to brush her hand lightly over Polly’s. Her boots are already on the floor, but she hasn’t even taken her threadbare socks off yet.
Polly swallows, unlacing her other boot and letting it drop.
At least she doesn’t jump this time.
Her socks have holes in the heels and toes now. She pulls off one sock, then the other, letting them fall to the floor. She wiggles her naked toes and Mal chuckles, draining some of the tension out of the room.
Not all of it, though. Not by a long shot.
“It’s... It’s funny,” Mal murmurs.
Polly turns to look at her, and sees a smile that isn’t really a smile, dark eyes gone too bright.
“I can’t do it.”
Polly tugs at her own jacket.
“Clothes?” she asks.
Mal nods in confirmation, her mouth quirking, full of rue and regret.
“I know,” Polly says. “It just... It doesn’t feel safe anymore, does it?”
“No,” Mal admits, looking away, blinking rapidly.
Polly carefully unfastens the buttons of her jacket, shrugging it off and letting it drop. She reaches out to take Mal’s hand. She holds it gently, not wanting to squeeze, not wanting to bring up bad memories.
When Mal turns to look at her again, she manages a smile, for all of a moment, before her eyes spill over.
Polly can barely reach for Mal before her own tears start falling. She presses her lips against the dark fuzz of Mal’s hair.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry this had to happen.”
“Not your fault,” Mal murmurs against Polly’s shoulder. “None of this is your fault.”
For a long time they cling to each other, shaking and sobbing, finally able to grieve for what they have been through. In the end, long after the moon has set, they let themselves sleep, still dressed in their filthy clothes, but tangled in each other’s arms.
Polly wakes once, during the night, at the sound of boots in the hallway outside. The heavy tread sends her heart racing, her eyes flying open in the dark, but the starlight outside the open window reminds her of where she is, reminds her that it really is finished. As her breath begins to slow, she feels Mal take her hand.
“It woke you, too?” Mal whispers.
“Yeah,” Polly answers. She pulls Mal closer in the dark. “It’s over, though, right?”
Gentle fingers stroke Polly’s cheek.
“Exactly.”
The next time they wake, it is to mid-morning sunlight streaming through the open window.
Polly meets Mal’s eyes, and they smile at each other, uncertainly, wrapping their arms around each other to assure themselves that they aren’t dreaming.
Polly sits up, stretching her stiff joints, wincing as they pop and snap. She catches sight of something at the window.
“Mal, look,” she murmurs.
Mal sits up, following Polly’s gaze.
There is a butterfly, blue as lightening, blue as a summer sky, fluttering around the dark cups of blooming morning glories.
“Bath?” Polly suggests, tentatively, still following the butterfly with her eyes.
Mal’s mouth quirks.
“I think I might be up for trying that, today.”
Polly smiles, her first real smile in what feels like a life time. She is surprised to discover something she thought she’d lost. She can feel a spark inside her again, can feel it growing as Mal takes her hand.
They watch, both of them hardly daring to breathe, as the butterfly flits from blossom to blossom, and then flutters off into the blue.
Free.
Just like them.
***
Comments? Please? I would like that very, very much. :-)