Two months ago I had to have a lump removed – this is where this little story came from.

Scar

When she found the second lump she thought immediately of him. Downstairs, making their evening drinks as she changed into her nightgown and robe. She thought of having to tell him. Of his large hands and the way he would clutch the tin of cocoa. Or how her bare breast fit neatly into the palm of his hand. He was clumsy with the milk, heavy-handed. He would gaze reverently as her nipple peaked at this touch, still, with wonder and wide-eyes and a boyish smile.

He always dropped the spoon to the floor and shook his head frustrated by his own clumsiness. The amount of times she'd kissed his shaking fingers over the past eight months.

She sagged back on the bath edge. Hands by her side, palms flat on the cold tub, mouth open, breathing deeply. For a second, the briefest of seconds, her eyes blurred. Then she sat back, upright, took a shuddering breath, the way Elsie Hughes would when there was something to face, and she lifted a slightly trembling hand to her chest and felt again. To check. To be sure.

Over her left breast, fingers tentative at first, exploring. But yes, there it was. Something new. Something foreign. And then she gasped again, tears falling. Because Elsie Carson could cry.

"Oh goodness," she said, head falling forward, sucking in air, "oh goodness."

Not again. Not now. When it was all falling into place. Had all fallen into place.

He had accepted his new position; in fact it had been the making of him. His lighter days, pottering in the garden and learning to bake – he made her bread and when she got home their house breathed with the heady richness of it. That ripe, full smell. And he'd smile so proudly as he produced the fruits of his labour. Sometimes, he worked alongside her, sharing her office now Barrow was in his. And they'd walk home together. Sometimes she'd walk alone, when it was still light, or he'd go to meet her and hold her hand when they were out of sight of the house. Last week he'd met her in the back yard like a lad waiting for a date, and he'd sat there with handpicked flowers and a dopey smile.

Not now when they were so in love.

He'd be very English about it of course. Stiff and upright and so very proper. No doubt he'd irritate her with his questions or his complaints as they sat in the waiting room. With his fuss designed to be hidden away. He'd take a step back from her, perhaps, curl up inside himself and wait for it all to be over. Avoid touching her. Avoid whispering into her ear the way he would when they were in bed now, moving up behind her, hands sneaking over her hip, pulling her body back against his – for warmth he'd claim as he kissed the back of her neck.

They were in the middle of summer; he was still kissing her neck.

Licking her lips, she blinked, leant forward and pressed her hands heavily against the wall to push herself up from the bath edge. Her knees felt weak as she turned to the sink and turned on the cold tap, she slapped her face with water and eased herself out of the maudlin.

Buttoning up her nightgown she pushed open the bathroom door, stepped into her slippers by the edge of the bed and pulled on her dressing gown, tying it tight.

The kitchen was empty, the back door open, and she followed the sounds of Charles fussing with the chairs on the gravel. It smelled of summer, fresh grass and blue skies and something fruitful and alive.

"Ah, here we go, I thought we could…" He indicated the mugs he'd placed on the small table, the plate of biscuits (which he would of course finish off) and she felt her heart leap at his thoughtfulness, at his effort. "Unless it's too cool," he said gruffly.

"It's lovely, as long as nobody sees me sitting outside in my nightwear." She pulled out her chair and sat down.

Charles was looking around, neck stretched as he peered about their small backyard.

"Whatever's wrong?"

"Do you think anybody can see?"

She smirked, reaching for a biscuit from the plate, "I doubt it. Not unless they're wandering into our back garden." She looked up at him, the sun setting, the sky rich with orange clouds. "Sit down, won't you?"

He did as she asked and she patted his hand where it lay on the table and left it there over his.

They sat in silence, no need for words in a relationship such as theirs.

The light was settling, greyish blue. And the birds still tweeting. Elsie leant back in her chair and listened, her face upturned to the evening sky – endless paleness, like the sea, like the dying of a season. The gentle caress of the night, the murmur of a breeze playing with the hem of her nightdress. And all green. All of life around them.

"Are you tired?"

She heard his deep, even tone somewhere inside her brain.

"Yes, I suppose," she answered automatically.

Of course she would have to tell him, they shared everything now regardless of content.

She finished her cocoa, put her mug aside and turned her chair slightly in order to watch him. He was so very happy, so very settled with her. They had this wonderful synchronisation, it had always been so, within months of working together.

She smirked to herself, lifting a hand to cover her smile.

"Something amusing?" He asked, taking the last biscuit from the plate – he had quite the stomach on him these days, she knew he was conscious of it, she didn't particularly mind it, truth be told.

"No, just thinking of when we first moved here."

She watched the recognition on his face; the momentarily wide eyes, the movement in his throat as he swallowed his cocoa.

"Oh?" He pronounced the single syllable with a knowingly gentle caress.

She remembered their first night – her sneaking around exploring every corner, tripping over uneven floors and plotting where her (their) knickknacks would go. Him, slightly reserved, quiet and reflecting as he moved his chair, found a spot by the fire, built it up to his satisfaction and sat by it as she bustled about.

Perhaps for the first time she loved him that night, she'd been rather passive over their honeymoon, not unwilling, certainly not, but tentative, learning what all this new wondrous thing meant. But that night she sensed the need for comfort in him as only a wife can, and curled against him in their new bed, kissed him until his eyes shone with happiness and he forgot all about his small room back at the big house.

"I was thinking of how it took us a few weeks to find our way. I wondered, at first… never mind."

"You mean, you questioned whether it would work?"

"Perhaps. At times. Didn't you?"

"Never. Not for a second. I think I see things rather more simply, perhaps too simply at times. I just imagined we'd bump along together."

She chortled at that, "Bump along?"

"Well I, the thing is, Elsie… I mean, I…"

She pressed her hand on his again, "You don't need to say anything." Stretching her legs, she pushed her chair back and got to her feet. "I'll clean up before bed; should we have a nip of Whisky?"

He looked up at her, "I'll pour."

It seemed decadent to take their glasses up to bed, something Charles wouldn't usually consider, but there was something in his wife's mood tonight that seemed out-of-the-ordinary.

She took her time in the kitchen and he sat in bed waiting patiently, the lamp on, his book open on his lap.

"Could you ask again about that hall door?" she said as she came into the bedroom, shutting the door and hanging her dressing gown on the back of it. "It still sticks and I've a job to close it at times."

"I will look into it tomorrow, my dear."

That raised an eyebrow, "My dear? Have you done something wrong?"

"I hope not," he smiled, putting his book aside and lifting the bedsheets back for her. She climbed in beside him, her pillows pushed up behind her back.

"Here we go," he handed her the measure of Whisky. "Now, perhaps you'll tell me what's bothering you."

She ought to have known he would already have noted the worries of the usually unflappable Elsie. There were many things Charles Carson didn't see, communications he misread or feelings he couldn't empathise with. Thankfully, his wife was the one thing he'd tuned into; every single second of their time together now was a moment he worshipped, for he never imagined he would ever have something so precious in his life.

"I found something," she said, before downing the liquor.

"In what regard?"

She lifted a hand, placed it on her breast, a ghost of a touch. "Here."

He held her gaze for the longest moment, his brain sinking in on itself, a tight coil before it unfurled and he was overcome with emotions.

"It might be nothing, again, but it's there and I need to obviously face –,"

"Can I feel?"

She was surprised by that; he'd never been very good at any of the things that required him to even consider illness or the female anatomy.

He seemed to read her mind, "You are my wife." He said plainly.

There had been many times now when he'd undressed her, revelling in the joy of a nightdress skimming over silky skin. The paleness of her. The perfection, in his eyes.

Yet, she couldn't recall being undressed with quite such care.

Beryl had touched her as a woman would, checking carefully but keenly aware of the firmness she could apply. Doctor Clarkson's hands had been cool, clinical, detached as she'd sat with red cheeks and her eyes averted.

Charles' hands were trembling, palms warm as he placed one on her hip, leaning over, around, close.

"Here," she said, her voice delicate. Like a thin bird taking its first flight, bones nothing more than tissue paper. "It's just here."

She guided his hand, placed where she'd felt the lump earlier.

He looked at her, his eyes kind, concerned. She shivered, he pulled the bedsheets closer around her waist, tried to shield her from any cold with his body.

"Do you feel?"

He nodded, just once, so precise, "I do."

Elsie let out a tight breath, her lungs aching; she'd been hoping it wouldn't be there, just in her mind.

"We'll go to Doctor Clarkson tomorrow."

"Charles…"

"I'll be there, this time, you won't go alone."

She felt her eyes tighten, the heat of tears. And she didn't want to cry, so very silly of her.

"My darling," he kissed her forehead, "I want to come, but if you prefer Mrs. Patmore."

"No, of course not." She watched her hand gripping his upper arm, the pinking of his flesh when her fingertips dug against his skin. "I want you there, I just feel so utterly silly about it all."

"Why on earth?"

"It seems so very unfair and I want to curse the world for it, even more so than before." She felt her tears spill over, "I don't want this to be…"

"Nothing is certain," he spluttered, "this could be nothing, like the other…" he waved his hand, as if he could dismiss the problem so easily.

She watched his eyes glance to the scar on her breast, the shiny wave of pearlescent skin that had been broken through, and she reached shyly for her nightgown and held it across her.

The memory of lying there as they cut into her, the smell of it all, the odd sensation of blood slipping out and down, tickling her neck before it was quickly mopped away by a kindly looking nurse gazing down at her. Stitches and how ugly it was to see when she redressed it.

"It doesn't hurt?" He asked.

He'd never addressed it before, how odd that seemed right now.

"I'm always careful, when we… I do try not to…"

"It doesn't hurt. It did, at the time. It pulled, it could, tight, like having pins and needles. Skin knitting back together."

He frowned, he hated to dwell on such things, "I wish I'd known more; I wish we could've spoken back then about things. I would have so liked to have been more of a help."

"It doesn't matter. I preferred not to make a fuss of it."

"Yes. But the work… you must take time off, rest."

"Charles –,"

"I mean for you to be taken care of."

"You do take care of me. Please, don't change anything, I don't want things to change." She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. "I don't want you to see me differently."

"I would never."

Her nightdress slipped again and he couldn't help but glance at the scar.

"Elsie."

She still smiled when he said her name.

"I couldn't have asked for more support than what you've given over this entire business with my hands. You don't see me as old or useless…"

"Of course not, I love you."

"And I you. That will never change." He stretched out his hand, his small finger tracing the line on her skin.

How odd this felt, to have someone on her side. Last time she'd felt very much alone, even with the offer of family support and Beryl by her side. When it came down to it she was alone in her bed at night, staring at the ceiling, questioning her life, unnerved in the dark.

"I won't let you go."

His words caught her off guard, he'd never been one for sentiments. It was sweet, when he let his front slip and some gentle endearment would trickle out. It was usually after their lovemaking, when she was in his arms, or he in hers, and he would be lost in feeling and whisper and whisper.

She watched as he took of his pyjama top, turned off the lamp and settled back on his pillows, drawing her to him.

Skin to skin, she pressed her face to his chest, closed her eyes as his hand ghosted up her back. He held her tight, pressed kisses to her head.

"A scar is just a measure of time and battles fought, nothing more. And this is just another battle that we'll face together." He kissed her again, she could feel his heart beating beneath her cheek, steady and strong. "I won't let you go."