The Inmate

The old bus, reeking of petrol, rattled on its way, leaving the woman standing on her own. She paused, glancing around; nothing seemed to have changed here. The road was still blurred by pools of oily black mud, the hedges splattered with greyish grime. In the distance, the village stretched its narrow ribbon along the edge of the woods, windows already glowing with warm yellow rectangles in the twilight. She could hear dogs barking and the usual indignant honking of the geese.

Six years, and its like time stood still here, thought Joyce. Well, almost. Only the farm up on the hill looked different. Instead of the usual line-up of farm machinery under weak lights, there was just darkness now. She had no idea what had happened to Barlows farm. Most likely, his heirs had sold off the lot.

Joyce walked along the villages main streetnot surprised in the least that someone might come around the corner any minute and chuck a stone at her. It felt as if every house was watching, eyes peering out to judge her. She pulled her headscarf low, hoping shed slip by unnoticed. What was she walking towards? Was there even anything left of her home? Honestly, she had nowhere else to go but this village, and yet, despite all the bad feeling she knew the locals harboured after what happened, shed come back. After all, she was the reason half the village lost their jobs six years ago.

She wasnt the same person anymoreinside or out. The cheerful brunette with big blue eyes who had once turned Jack Barlows head was long gone. Shed been on her own, at the end of the lane in a battered old cottage. Back in those days, Barlow was something of a local legend: most of the villagers worked for him, and people practically worshipped him. When Joyce moved in with him, she really thought shed found herself a golden ticket.

Turns out, it wasnt so simple. Jack had fancied himself a sort of country squireone of those men youd call a proper tyrant. Joyce was little more than a servant to him, a live-in maid there to amuse him. Smitten with his attention at first, it took her a while to realise exactly what shed got into. He cut her off from her friends, told her what she could and couldnt wear, even banned all make-up. Her whole life shrank, until it was nothing but rules.

She spent her days at home, waiting for him, making stews and scrubbing floors. Going out to work was never even discussedJack was always suspicious, convinced she had someone else. No matter what Joyce said or did, it never changed anything. Nothing was enough. The day he raised his hand to her, Joyce packed her things and moved back to her run-down cottage, desperately hoping to forget the whole mess. But fate hadnt finished with her yet.

The next day, Jack stormed over. Joyce was mopping the kitchen floor, with all the doors open, letting the fresh air flood in. For the first time in ages, the house smelled clean and new. Then, out of nowhere, Jack kicked the bucket over, water sloshing everywhere. She knew shed be next.

After that, her memory went hazylike her mind was trying to protect her from reliving it. The next thing she remembered, the garden was full of police, someone was waving a kitchen knife in a clear evidence bag, asking her questions she didnt understand. Neighbours were peering through the fence, the kitchen was chaos, chairs knocked over, curtains torn from their hooks, and Jack was lying in the middle of it.

Shes finished him off! someone shouted from beyond the fence. You shouldve played it safe, girl, and hed still be here! What more did she want? She had it made! Shes ruined a good man! What are we all supposed to do now? Its him we had to thank for work! The crowd buzzed, anxious and angry: Now what, eh? How are we supposed to make a living now?

Joyce was sentenced to six years in prison, serving her time at an open womens prison. The years were hard enough, but not as dreadful as shed feared. Shed always been open-hearted and a good listener, so she made some friends, which helped her get through it. The woman she was now bore little resemblance to that long-ago girl with the blue eyes. Her hair had gone grey at the temples and shed lost the desire to dress up or draw any attention to herself at all. Never in a million years did she picture herself on the insidea part of her had always thought prison was the sort of place for the hopeless and desperate. But as the saying goes, There but for the grace of God go I. Everything can fall to pieces in the blink of an eye. Now, she was an ex-con.

Hidden beneath her scarf, Joyces heart pounded as she wondered whether her house had even survived. Maybe someone had already stripped it for firewood. But sure enough, at the very edge of the dale, between two sprawling birch trees, she could see the outline of her house. It was colder in the dipshe could hear the stream and the frogs. Shed daydreamed of this moment countless times, imagined coming home, walking these familiar places. The woods beyond still called her, with memories of picking mushrooms in autumn. It took all she had not to run straight there with a basket.

She slipped through the gate like a shadow, reaching up to find the spare key hidden in the eaves. Opening the door, she was bracing for mould and damp, but the house just smelled… clean. She flicked the light switch and the kitchen glowed yellow. Everything was neatthere was even a pink geranium blooming on the sill. She stared at the plant, baffled. Walking from room to room, she saw that nothing had been disturbed. Someone had clearly been looking after the place.

Joyce! Jooooyce! a voice called from the porch, and in bustled her neighbour, Dorothy. My word, Dorothy said, looking her up and down, youve changed a lot, havent you… I saw the lights and hurried over. Brought you something to eat as well, youll be hungry after your journey. She put a milk bottle and a lovingly wrapped loaf of bread on the table. Thank you, Joyce smiled, did you look after the house? Of course I did, what else could I do? Dorothy replied, You cant just leave a house unattended… Joyces throat tightened with emotion. Thank you, really, thank you so much. Tears stung her eyes. Id better be off now, said Dorothy, some of the menfolk are still holding a grudge. If my husband hears Ive popped round, hell give me an earful!

Joyce felt lighter knowing at least one person supported her. She poured herself a glass of fresh milk and just then, there was a shy knock at the door. On the step was a boy of about thirteen, awkwardly holding out a package. Mum sent this, he stammered, thrusting it into Joyces hands before running off. Shed no idea who he was; in six years, even the children looked different. The parcel gave off the delicious smoky aroma of ham, making her mouth water.

Without ceremony, Tessa barged in and hugged Joyce tight. Before Jack, the two had been thick as thieves. Joyce burst into tears: I didnt think anyone would even speak to me. Oh, dont be daft, Tessa said, women stick together! Whatever people say, we know it was self-defence. The men dont get it; they never do. When Dorothy said you were back, I snuck over with a few bits from the allotment. Get some rest tonight; well have a proper natter tomorrow.

Joyce was so overwhelmed she could hardly eat. She realised shed been unfair, expecting the worst from her neighboursthe women understood, after all. Lying in fresh sheets, shed barely closed her eyes when there was another knock at the window. Even in the dark, she recognised the broad outline of Oliver. He wasnt officially in charge, but everyone knew he was the villages go-to man.

Dont come out, he said quietly, lets just talk through the window. We blokes had a word, and its daft to hold a grudge. Its not the women who dont understand, love, its the men who think its your fault. Its harder without Jack and the work, but truth be told, he wasnt exactly an angel. Anyway, weve had a whip-round and want you to have a little something to tide you over. Go on, take it. Joyce felt awkward, but he simply lobbed the envelope through the window and vanished back into the night.

Writer: Annabel SavinJoyce held the envelope in her trembling hands, feeling the weight of every coin and every notea silent, stubborn message from the place she had run from, then returned to. Sitting in the pale kitchen light, she stared at the small, neat geranium glowing on the sill, its petals trembling with the draft, still, impossibly, alivejust like her.

She stood, pressing her fingers to the cold glass, the village beyond still simmering with the old stories and sorrows, but also with seedlings of change. She thought of Dorothys kindness, Tessas fierce loyalty, the shy boy with his mothers gift. Even Olivers awkward gesture, clumsy but sincere, was a bridge stretching across chasms that once seemed too wide.

She went to bed listening to the stream and the wind in the birches, her heart beating slow and hopeful. The world hadnt forgiven her, not fullynot yet. But here, in this soft patch of darkness and silence, she let herself believe she could put down roots again.

In the morning, Joyce opened her door to the crisp air and the brightening fields. Someone had left a basket on the stepa clutch of eggs, a wedge of cheese, a bunch of ragged autumn asters. She laughed, the sound unfamiliar but welcome, and stood tall in the sunlight.

One by one, old neighbours ventured up the lane, bringing news, bread, and hesitant apologies that looked more like warm handshakes or a nod across the hedge. The village seemed smaller nowless a world to fear, more a puzzle piece she might fit into, if she was patient.

As dusk fell, Joyce sat on her porch steps, sipping Dorothys tea, and watched the windows blink to life along the road like quiet signalseach one a promise that even after a storm, a new light can burn. She didnt know what tomorrow would bring, but night by night, she understood: no matter how far shed fallen, here was a place she could return to, and at last, begin again.