No Known Grave by Maureen Jennings

Author:Maureen Jennings [Jennings, Maureen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-7710-4341-3
Publisher: McClelland & Stewart
Published: 2014-10-20T16:00:00+00:00

Goddamn it. He recognized the tidy black printing at once. The envelope had been franked yesterday at the Ludlow post office and must have been delivered in the afternoon post.

Gingerly, he took out the sheet of paper and started to read.

She and her husband have talked in whispers about what is going on. She was glad when she first heard that the Devil had died, but her husband, wiser in the ways of the world than she was, shook his head. “It will bring no good to us,” he said.

A police officer had pounded on their door with the orders to stay inside and not look out. He is young, and she can smell his fear. All she says is, “Where are their men?” but he scowls at her. “Mind your own business, missus. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll not ask questions.”

Today, she is very careful, lifting the curtain ever so slightly. In front of the schoolhouse there is a long line of canvas-topped lorries, the drivers standing at the ready beside them, smoking their cigarettes. There are even more soldiers than before. Nobody is talking. Then the women are led out. There are no children with them and all of them are weeping. No hysteria, just tears. Who are they? They are not from this village. All around them are soldiers, all weighed down with their weapons. What are they armed against? The withered old grandmother? The young woman holding her swollen belly?

The women are loaded into the lorries. The soldiers brook no dawdling and she can hear one of them shouting. None of the women resist. It is as if they are drugged. By despair, not anything else. One by one, the lorries are closed, doors snapping smartly. At a whistle from the sergeant, they start to draw away, one a few feet behind the other, moving slowly, like a funeral procession.

She knows she should move from the window, but she is powerless to break away. The line of lorries has barely disappeared from view when the two large coaches that arrived earlier draw up in front of the schoolhouse. The double doors open again and this time two columns of children emerge. They are quiet too, smaller ones holding hands with older sisters or brothers. Each clutches a brown paper parcel, the little ones holding them close to their chests the way children do if they have something precious. One of the soldiers directs them to the first coach. The windows have been darkened, so she loses sight of them once they are inside. There are about forty or so in each coach.

Another whistle from the sergeant and the coaches drive off. Faster than the lorries. They leave swirls of dust behind them. Careful not to attract attention, she lowers the curtain.

Her body shudders as she weeps.

The world must weep also.

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