Roaring Lion , livre ebook

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127 pages

English

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Description

August 1939... John Stanford leaves England with his wife Helen to go and live in Ireland (Eire) just before the start of WW2, in order to escape the war. However, Stanford finds that escape is not as easy as he had imagined and, as events unfold, he faces increasingly serious consequences for himself, and for his relationship with his wife.He makes the acquaintance of Vincent Fitzgerald, a former teacher from Galway. As they talk, it gradually becomes clear that, although their lives have been very different, their experiences have given them both very similar insights into some of the basic elements of human relationships, especially their experiences of love for women. Events take their course, with tragic consequences for both men.The novel explores a number of themes, including the relationship between men and women, the relationship between the individual, society and the state, and the ideologies of war, but from a perspective not often seen in fiction. The clear and well-paced plot line makes the book very readable, especially for fans of period fiction.

Sujets

Ireland

Historical fiction

Stephen Ireland

Informations

Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	10 novembre 2017
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781784629151
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

A Roaring Lion
Carl Richardson

Copyright © 2015 Carl Richardson
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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ISBN 9781784629151
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
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Matador ® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

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Brethren, be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil,
as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour …
Contents

Cover

About the author

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About the author
Born and brought up in west Cumbria, Carl Richardson studied at Manchester Polytechnic and Newcastle University. He spent much of his working life as a civil servant, having now retired.
1
At the sound of the key in the front door, Helen froze. It was the sound she had been waiting for for five days, and yet now that she heard it, momentarily, she was disconcerted, even afraid. The luminous hands of the bedside clock showed it was a quarter past three; but she didn’t need to look at the clock. She had lain awake all night, unable to sleep, and unable to think clearly either. She had formed a half resolution to go to the police in the morning, in the hope that such a decision would allow her at last to sleep, even though she knew that John would be coming back, and would be angry if she had involved the police. On the previous occasions, he had at least told her in advance that he was going away; this time he had simply disappeared, leaving just a short, scribbled note, and he had been away for longer than ever before. She ought to have been angry, not just at being treated in such a way by her husband, but at how blatantly he offended against her. But her overwhelming emotion was gladness that he was back, and that she would see him again, and perhaps even a pathetic pleasure that, even if there was another woman, if that was what it was, he had at least come back to her. The anger would come later, when there was time for her to reflect without the immediate pressure and confusion of uncertainty. On the previous occasions, he would not say where he had been, and although she could not avoid the suspicion that there was someone else, she had failed to bring matters to a head. For one thing, John did not look to her like a man who had just fallen in love again. For some time he had been almost constantly depressed, worried and irritable; and what made it worse for Helen was that he had been unable to confide in her. The mysterious disappearances, which he would not explain, only added insult to injury, and although his mood and spirit seemed to be revived somewhat for a while following each return, there was a strangeness about it which she could not account for in terms of the conventional explanations of the behaviour of wayward husbands. And so, until now, she had held her peace.
She sat up and switched on the bedside light. She could hear John moving around downstairs, and she had almost got out of bed to go down and greet him when she heard him coming up the stairs. Then he was standing framed in the bedroom doorway, and for a minute they just looked at each other in silence. He looked terribly drawn and gaunt, and yet with an air of grim determination rather than hopelessness: that certain strangeness which she did not understand. He carried a suitcase, which he slowly set down on the floor.
“It’s been five days, John. I’ve been worried sick. Where have you been, and why are you doing this?”
John did not speak, but simply shook his head in a gesture of unutterable weariness.
“Could you not even have told me you were going away? Can you not see how unfair it is on me? I can’t stand much more of this, in God’s name I can’t. When will it end?”
“It ends tonight.” His voice was flat and grey. He picked the suitcase up and put it on the bed. “It ends now. There will be no more of this.”
He had opened a bedside drawer and was taking out selected personal belongings and putting them into the suitcase. Helen stared at him, uncomprehending at first, then with growing dismay as she took in what he was doing.
“Are you not staying? John, what are you doing? Are you …”
He stopped what he was doing and came and sat on the bed.
“Helen, I can’t explain very much, not here – it isn’t safe for me to do so. You’ll have to accept what I tell you on trust for now. I hope I can explain properly later, but not now. All I can tell you is that I have to quit this place for good, and at once. These trips away have been a preparation for that, and at last, thank God, it’s all arranged.”
“You’re … leaving.” There was disbelief in her face. “What have you come back for?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
“I’ve come back for you. You’re coming with me. It’s all arranged, as I said.”
“Going with you? Going where? Why can’t you explain?”
“I can’t, not now. I’ll explain when we arrive there, but not before.”
“Arrive where?” She was exasperated, as much by her own tiredness from lack of sleep as by her husband’s strange secretiveness.
“I’m sorry, darling, I can’t even tell you that, not yet. When we’re on our way perhaps, but not yet.”
Helen rubbed her hands over her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair in a gesture of weariness.
“You’re mad,” she said, as much to herself as to him. “You’re mad. You arrive here at half past three in the morning after being away for five days, and expect me to get dressed at a minute’s notice and depart into the night with you for a destination you won’t tell me of, and leave behind my home, my life, everything, for good. That’s what you said, wasn’t it, for good?”
“Yes. That’s what I’m asking. And I’m not giving you much of a choice. You’re my wife. I have to go. I have no choice. I’m asking you to come with me. If you don’t come with me, what will you do?”
“Why do you have to go?” Her eyes were wide and dark, seeking the truth. “Have you done something wrong? Are you on the run from the police?”
“I have done nothing wrong. Nor am I on the run from the police – at least, not yet I’m not. But in a sense, I am on the run, and I have to leave at once, now that my preparations are complete. Will you come with me? You are my wife. If you won’t, what will you do?”
She dropped her gaze, and for a minute, stared at nothing. What would she do? She had no job. She might be able to get a job, but not one that would allow her to keep on the house if John left. She would have to find somewhere else to live, at least. And what of the rest of her life – her mother and father, her friends, her little social routine . . ? But how quickly one’s perspective shifted. Ten minutes ago she had been able to think of nothing but his return, and the rest of her life had been of no account. She would have forgiven him almost anything if he would come back to her, under almost any circumstances; and yet, now he had come back, it was not as she had expected. She still doubted his sanity, and yet she was his wife. What was she to do?
“You’re determined to go to this place, wherever it is?”
“I’m determined to go. All this, all these trips away have been in preparation for this.”
“And when we get there, wherever it is, would it be possible ever to return here?”
“For you, I expect it would be possible, yes. For me, it would not. I have no choice.”
He waited for her to answer. She closed her eyes and for a minute said nothing. Was the beginning of yet another suspicion forming in the back of her mind? If only she could sleep! She caught herself wool-gathering, and it was only a slight rustling noise from John’s coat that brought her back to herself. She looked up at him wearily.
“I’m pretty well done in. I’ve had very little sleep.” It was manifestly true, but she was also clutching at straws.
“Neither have I; but we must be clear of here by daybreak. You can sleep a little on the way, and when we get there, you can sleep as much as you like.”
He was willing her to come, and for a moment, she was aware of the strength of that will. She felt driven by it, surprised by its fierceness, and almost as helpless in her surprise and tiredness as a leaf blown before the wind. Slowly and deliberately, she pushed aside the bedclothes and climbed out of bed.
In an hour, they were ready. The sky was pale with dawn as the front door of the house closed behind them with a click, and with two suitcases each, they started along the road to the station. Even at that hour there were quite a few people about: shift workers on their way to Trafford Park or the city centre, office cleaners, delivery roundsmen. For them, it was just another Saturday morning: another day’s work, or half a day if they were lucky. Manchester United would be playing at Old Trafford that afternoon in one of the first games of the new season, and the luckier ones would be there; and whether one was lucky or unlucky, it was one of the main topics of conversation. Most of those who had time to buy an early morning