Читать книгу Land Girls: The Promise: A moving and heartwarming wartime saga - Roland Moore - Страница 10

As the first rays of daylight started to beat away the shadows in the kitchen of Pasture Farm, Iris laced up her boots. She finished buttering a slice of bread and carefully lifted the latch on the door. It was four in the morning; perhaps an hour before Esther and the others would be awake. Iris thought she had time to walk the mile and a half to the neighbouring Shallow Brook Farm and get back before she was due to start work. She sneaked out the door, closing it behind her, the bread lodged in her mouth as if she was a bird about to feed its young. Then she set off down the path, crossing through the yard and finding herself on the single track that connected the two farms. The air was cold, not yet warmed by the rising sun, and Iris found herself gasping occasionally as she struggled to walk fast and finish the food in her mouth.

Eventually, she reached a blind corner and turned it to find herself facing a sign that read Shallow Brook Farm. Iris looked beyond the faded, painted sign, its black letters long since bleached grey by years of sunlight. There was the farmhouse itself, a small red-brick building with eves that hung low over the windows like drooping eyelids. And whereas this might give the appearance of a picture-book home, there was something foreboding and cold about it. The curtains were thin, plain white veils like cataracts behind dirty, darkened windows. Iris edged closer, past an ancient hay barrow. Something squealed from within and there was a flurry of movement as she moved alongside it. She didn’t look, preferring not to know what was living in there. The stone cobbles of the yard were broken and smashed in places, and in one corner there was a bucket, trowel and a pile of cement under tarpaulin, where John and Martin had started to repair things. The work was progressing slowly as, with a whole farm to run, they couldn’t focus all their time on the one job and much of the yard was still overgrown with weeds. She reached the front door. As she extended her hand towards the latch, she remembered the last time she entered this house. The time she had discovered the truth about poor Walter Storey. The time Vernon had made his dreadful promise.

This time, she knew that the house wouldn’t be empty. John Fisher was staying here. She didn’t want to wake him as she entered so, carefully she lifted the latch and crept inside. The broken barometer was still showing the prospect of snow. The side table in the hallway had a pile of unopened post and some bills that had been opened, presumably by John. Iris took a deep breath and moved towards the living room. She pushed open its door and felt her stomach lurch, as adrenaline and fear suddenly rose up in her body. It was just like it was before. There was the carpet, patterned, but predominantly red. The carpet where she had found the shard of broken bottle with Walter’s blood on it. The mantelpiece that she had stood alongside when she made the discovery. And there was the small desk where Vernon had attacked her, forcing her onto it as he threatened her.

I’ll come back for you, Iris …

The words whispered around the ghostly room. Iris looked at the fire, where the poker was now cradled in the coal scuttle. The telephone had been put back in place on its small table near the desk. But apart from those two aspects, little had changed about the room since she had last been here.

Iris opened the drawer on the desk. It was full of papers, letters. She picked one up and could tell, by the way it was laid out, it was a bill for payment. But she couldn’t read the words. She put it back and looked at the photographs on the mantelpiece. There he was. The small, dark figure of Vernon Storey, smiling as he posed with a gigantic pike he’d caught in the river. She wasn’t sure which one had the worst teeth. Next to him was a small gate-fold photograph frame with Walter Storey in one half and his brother, Samuel, in the other. A hairbrush near the end of the mantelpiece caught her eye, the red-brown hair on it catching the early morning light that was peeking through the gap in the curtains. Vernon’s hair. Iris found herself compelled to reach out for it, to touch it. As her fingers neared the hairbrush, suddenly a man’s voice made her jump.

“What are you doing?”

She spun round. For a second, Vernon was standing there, his gimlet eyes squinting at her. But, of course, it wasn’t Vernon Storey. It was John Fisher. He was good-looking, clean-cut with kind eyes. And at the moment, those eyes were trying to work out why he had an uninvited Land Girl in the house at this absurdly early hour of the morning.

“Sorry. I needed to have a look.” Iris said apologetically.

John nodded. It was all right. He understood. He knew about what had happened here with Vernon and Iris. And he’d been through enough trauma of his own to know that she might need to come back. It would do her good to return to the scene of the event, knowing that this time it was safe.

“Want a cup of tea?” he asked kindly, turning to leave. Iris noticed that he was wearing his dressing gown. Now she knew for certain that she must have woken him up.

“Sorry, I thought I was being quiet.”

“Stop saying sorry. I was getting up soon anyway. Farming keeps the same unsociable hours as the RAF. I’m used to it.” His voice carried from the hallway. Iris went to follow, but was surprised to see another figure on the stairs, also in a dressing gown. It was a bleary-eyed Joyce Fisher, complete with a few curlers in her hair; one of which was dangling over her left ear. It looked as though she’d been dragged through a hedge.

“Iris?” she gasped.

“Joyce?” Iris was equally surprised.

Joyce pulled her dressing gown tight around her ample bosom. Iris couldn’t help but smirk.

“Joyce stays here whenever she can,” John explained. He revealed that they had a system. Joyce would wait for Esther to go to bed and then creep over in the middle of the night. Then, after spending the night together, they would get up early and Joyce would hurry back to Pasture Farm before everyone woke up. Even though they were married, they knew that Esther wouldn’t condone Joyce spending anything other than Friday and Saturday nights at Shallow Brook Farm. It would be a distraction from her work and commitments as a Land Girl.

“But, why?” Iris asked. “Connie is allowed to live at the vicarage with Henry. Why can’t you live here with John?”

“It’s not fair, is it?” Joyce said, glancing at John, to perhaps indicate that they had discussed this same imbalance many times. “Truth is, Connie got permission from Lady Hoxley. And because she was married to a vicar, that was somehow all right. I asked and Lady Hoxley turned up her nose. It’s simply one rule for the wife of a clergyman and another rule for the rest of us.”

“She did agree to two nights a week, but wanted Joyce to spend most of her time at Pasture Farm,” John said, trying to be diplomatic. The last thing he wanted was to upset Lady Hoxley and find himself turfed out on his ear.

“I’m the most senior, apart from Esther,” Joyce said, refusing to let the matter go.

“You’ve been there longest, that’s all.” John laughed. He turned to Iris. “Truth is, we don’t mind -”

“We do bloody mind,” Joyce snapped. “I want to stay here all the time!”

“It’s exciting this way. We feel it’s dangerous,’ John added. ‘Which it is, if we get caught.”

Joyce looked imploringly at Iris. Iris knew what she was about to say and got there first.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to say anything.”

John smiled his thanks and went through to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Joyce raised an eyebrow to Iris. “And I won’t tell Esther about that new bottle of whisky you keep in your room.” Iris wondered how Joyce knew, but Joyce explained, “I could smell it on your breath, so I put two and two together.” The bottom line was that they understood each another. They walked through to join John in the kitchen. As he poured the tea, Joyce asked Iris what she thought about Finch being in love. Iris hadn’t given it much thought. But she felt it was strange seeing Finch all dressed up and smart.

“I keep thinking he’s off to see the bank manager.” Iris laughed.

“Yes, he’s certainly improved the way he’s turned out,” Joyce said. “I haven’t seen her. Have you seen her?”

“I saw her briefly in the village, when I was delivering eggs.” Iris nodded. “Seemed a very attractive older woman.”

“He’s done well for himself,” John smiled, stirring the pot with a teaspoon. Joyce shot him a look, realising that he knew full well he was being playful with his comments about another woman’s attractiveness. He knew it would get a rise out of his wife. Joyce bristled and tried to resist the urge to fall into his trap.

“Yeah, but what does she see in him?” Joyce asked. “I mean, he’s funny and warm, but he’s no oil painting.”

“Isn’t funny and warm enough?” John teased.

“Maybe.” Joyce frowned. “I just worry she’s after his money.”

“What money?” Iris laughed. “Until two weeks ago, his trousers were held up with string!”

“But that’s just it. He’s got the money squirrelled away to buy himself a smart suit, a hat and a thick coat. He’s been saving it up for years, all that money from his scams and wages. Think on, Iris. Men like that keep fortunes under their beds.”

“Maybe we should keep an eye on things. See what she’s after, then?” Iris asked. Something else was bothering her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Before she could try to identify what it was, the conversation continued, further distracting her.

“Or we should just keep our noses out of it and let him get on with it. Now, drink your tea,” John scolded. It was too early in the morning for all this gossip.

Joyce went to sip her cup, but John took it away. He smiled at her playfully. “Not you. You’ve got to get back to barracks.”

“No!” Joyce said, realising the time. She said hasty goodbyes and kissed John, before hurrying out of the kitchen. They could hear Joyce’s feet running up the stairs to go and get dressed.

As they waited for her to return, they sipped their tea and John outlined what he planned to do today. Martin was coming over at seven and they were going to start weeding the large field at the farm. The soil had been turned over and treated with manure before Vernon had left, but now nature had reclaimed it and it was a mass of horsetail and dandelions.

“You’re welcome to stay and help,” John suggested. “If Esther can spare you.”

“I think she’s got plans for me. As always.”

Iris tipped the dregs of her tea down the butler’s sink. She was about to leave when John spoke.

“Did you find what you wanted here? You know, to make you feel better.”

“Not really,” Iris admitted. “Don’t really know what I was looking for.”

John stared at her doleful expression. He could see she was scared and uncertain. “Come back any time, eh?” he said kindly as she nodded and left the room.

Dr Channing appeared to be picking at an invisible piece of lint on the knee of his trousers as he sat in the study at Hoxley Manor. Iris had glanced at his leg a number of times and now accepted that there was probably nothing there. It was just a nervous tic, like the way she’d clear her throat when it didn’t need clearing.

Iris felt more intimidated than usual by the suave and charismatic doctor, as they sat looking at each other in the eerie quietness of the book-lined room. The meeting had been arranged by Esther. Iris was supposed to be here to talk about how she was feeling, about the problems she was having. But she never felt at ease with Dr Channing at the best of times. There was something cold about him. As her mum said, some people had a cold centre where their heart should be. She had wanted to bring her tiny rag doll with her, just to keep it in her hands for comfort. But she decided that Channing would spot it and read some mammoth psychological problem or other into it. So it was best it stayed back in her bedroom. The predominantly circular study was adorned with bookshelves arching around its walls, each filled with hardback books and encyclopaedias. Iris was sitting on a leather-backed green chair, ten feet away from Channing, who was seated in a similar chair. The grandmother clock near the door ticked in soporific calmness as they sat looking at each other.

“In your own time.” Channing’s words sounded encouraging, but they were said with the strained smile of a man who considered he’d wasted quite enough of his valuable time on this pointless activity. Iris noticed the irritability bubbling under the surface and realised she ought to say something. But, by the same token, it made her want to clam up.

“Just a bit scared at night, you know.”

“You’re worried that Mr Storey will come back?”

“Yeah. I know it’s ridiculous.” Iris struggled to put it across. “But it seems real enough at night.”

“If he comes back, the police will charge him with the murder of his son.” Dr Channing picked at the invisible lint again. “And it’s highly likely that he’d be hanged by his neck for the crime. So it’s not a probability that he’ll come back just to scare you, Iris.”

Suddenly Iris felt annoyed. It wasn’t that she wanted to be at the centre of this situation, in fact she’d do anything to get away from it. She wasn’t manufacturing this fear to receive attention. It was a real and palpable dread.

“It wasn’t a probability that my mum would be kissed by Errol Flynn, but she was,” Iris blustered.

“Sorry?”

For the first time during their meeting, Dr Channing looked surprised. He gave a confused look and furrowed his brow at Iris.

“You’re talking about probability, strange things happening and I’m saying that no one would have thought Errol Flynn would have kissed my mum, would they? But he did.”

“Errol Flynn –”

“Kissed my mum, yes,” Iris finished. She had been eight years old when her mother had been working as an assistant stage manager at Northampton Royal Theatre. The repertory company included a young actor named Errol Flynn. At the end of the final show, he had kissed Margot on the cheek and thanked her for her help. It was no big deal at the time - he hadn’t made many films and wasn’t famous. In recent years, though, it had become something of an interesting Dawson family anecdote. But Iris didn’t see the point of explaining it to Dr Channing. She’d rather tease him and leave him wondering how it might have happened. Channing was writing something on the notepad on the nearby table.

“Esther Reeves said you had a ready imagination,” he commented.

“I’m not making it up,” Iris replied, alarmed that he seemed to be condemning her story as a fabrication.

But Dr Channing hastily changed the subject before she got a chance to explain. “I think it would be beneficial for you to go to Shallow Brook Farm and see that nothing can harm you there.”

Iris nearly blurted out that she had already been there, but she guessed that she might get in trouble. So again, she stayed silent. Was this making things worse? Should she talk more and tell him more things? Should she explain about Errol Flynn? How should this work? Iris felt he wouldn’t want to know, and besides, she didn’t want to spend any more time here than she had to.

“And I’ll give you some medicine that will help you to sleep.”

This seemed as if the meeting was about to finish, and Iris felt relieved. She’d take any medicine just to get out of here.

Dr Channing scrawled something else on his notepad and got to his feet. Iris realised that the consultation had ended. She got up and stretched out her hand to thank him. But he was already on his way out of the room, his white coat billowing as he marched down the corridor.

“How rude …” Iris mumbled to herself.

When Iris returned to Pasture Farm, the kitchen was already full of the steam and heat of the evening’s stew. But a red-faced Esther still had time to ask Iris how things had gone with Dr Channing. “Has it made a difference talking to him?”

“Yeah. A lot.” Iris smiled. She thought she might as well tell a fib. Esther and Finch had arranged the appointment for her, and the last thing they probably wanted to hear was that Iris hadn’t appreciated it. No, it was fine. Case closed.

Thankfully, Esther didn’t have the time or inclination for details. She needed the table to be laid and the plates to be put out before the rest of the girls returned hungry from the fields. So Iris busied herself. Just as she was laying the final place mat, the latch on the door opened and Shelley Conrad came in, wiping her brow. She was slightly older than Iris, with a mass of blonde curls and a rosy face. Prone to clumsiness, Shelley was the sort of person who could somehow manage to find a rake to step on in an empty yard.

“The others will be along in a minute.” Shelley sat on one of the chairs and started to pull her boots off.

“Not in here, lady,” Esther admonished, as she hauled the stew over to the serving plates.

“Sorry, forgot.” But Shelley looked confused, as if she’d never been told this before in her life. Iris gave a warm smile. She liked Shelley and knew how distracted she was. Shelley rose from the seat and started hopping towards the back of the kitchen. Iris was just about to warn her about the dangers of trying to walk with a boot half on, when Shelley crashed out of view onto the floor. Thud. Iris ran to her side, but luckily Shelley was unhurt, just embarrassed by the awkwardness of her own body.

“How did that happen?” Shelley said, bemused.

Iris shrugged. She was used to hearing Shelley say that every time she fell over or hurt herself.

Iris helped her to her feet. “Are you all right?”

“Someone’s put an extra step on this kitchen floor. That’s what’s done it.” Shelley shook her head. Iris laughed, assuming that she was joking, but this earned her a confused look. Maybe Shelley was being serious? It was hard to tell sometimes.

“It’ll be the stairs to the cellar, love,” Esther chipped in, whilst she plopped generous amounts of potato stew onto each plate. “That cellar we haven’t got.” But Shelley had gone and didn’t hear the joke. Iris returned to the table and greeted the rest of the Land Girls, who were pouring into the kitchen. Joyce, Connie and Dolores entered, full of tales from the fields of exhaustion and sunburn. Martin came in, his cheeks flushing slightly at the sight of Iris. The girls talked about the drainage problems and the lack of manure. As Iris listened, she thought of the small bottle of pills in her pocket. She felt happy that they might allow her to sleep tonight. Maybe she wouldn’t have to resort to getting drunk tonight. Maybe.

I will come for you, Iris. Mark my words.

The words didn’t scare her. Not in the daylight. But Iris didn’t have long to contemplate them because Shelley bounded back into the room. Taking a slice of bread and chewing it before she sat down, she turned to Iris. ‘Are you going to the flicks tomorrow?’

“Yes, I am,” Iris replied.

Martin struggled to hide his discomfort.

“Oooh!” Connie cooed. “Got yourself a date?”

“Well …”

“‘Ere, is it you, Martin? Are you stepping out with Iris?” Connie asked. Martin blushed and hurriedly shook his head. Iris felt her own cheeks redden. She didn’t want to discuss this in front of Martin. She liked him and didn’t want to hurt him. The fact was, if he’d got his act together and asked her first, Iris would have gone with him instead of Joe Batch.

To her surprise, Martin spoke. “Actually I’m going. But on my own.”

Esther glanced from her plates. This was news to her. She didn’t look entirely happy about the prospect of her son going out of an evening. But what could she do? He was growing up and getting more independent than ever. He spent a lot of time working with John at Shallow Brook. He wasn’t her little boy any more. She was just relieved he hadn’t set his cap at ditzy Shelley.

“You make sure you wear a clean shirt, that’s all,” Esther chided.

It was as near to an endorsement as he was likely to get. Martin nodded, taking it on the chin. John and Finch bustled into the room and sat at their places. Esther said grace and everyone tucked in. As usual, the room went silent apart from the sounds of contented eating, until everyone had finished what was on their plates.

After dinner, as Connie went home to the vicarage to Henry, Iris was about to walk the short distance from the farmhouse to Frank’s outbuilding when Martin stopped her. He kept his voice low so that Esther couldn’t hear him, but he indicated for Iris to go outside. Once in the yard, he produced something from behind his back. It was a small collection of hardback children’s books, full of colourful pictures and big writing.

“Hope you won’t mind, but I found these. Thought they might be useful.”

“Thanks,” Iris said, genuinely grateful. Martin knew that she was learning to read and write - he was one of the few who did. She flicked through the well-thumbed pages. A goose in a hat was falling into a puddle. A horse in a waistcoat was berating a cat.

“It’s funny. I used to love it,” Martin said.

“It’ll really help me.”

“How are you getting on?”

“Slowly. But Frank is very patient and he listens while I stumble over every word.”

They smiled at each other. She got the impression that Martin wanted to say something, perhaps about who she was going to the film with, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He nodded goodbye to her and, with the books tucked under her arm, she made her way to Frank’s den. He was inside tinkering with a rusted metal trap. Its jaws were clenched shut and Frank was trying to prise them apart with an equally rusty chisel. He laid it aside and opened a drawer, taking out a pencil and a note pad, in readiness for their lesson. But Iris wanted to talk about her appointment earlier. She was worried about what Dr Channing had thought about her. Could he say she was mad? Get her locked up? And what would the pills do to her? After about twenty minutes of repeating the same things to her, Frank decided that they should call it a night.

“Come back tomorrow, when you’ve had a rest, eh?”

Iris nodded. She apologised for not being able to concentrate.

“Dr Channing thought I should go to Shallow Brook,” she said. “I think I might ask Finch if I can work there for a bit. Just until it’s not a scary place. That might help. Do you think?”

“I don’t know, Iris. Might do.” Frank picked up his trap and resumed trying to get its jaws open. He was no expert. Besides he dealt with problems by keeping them to himself and soldiering on. Iris picked up her books, left the outbuilding and walked back to the farmhouse. Back in her bedroom, she bolted the door and sat on her bed. She knew that Esther had forbade her from locking it, but she needed the security. She took out the small brown bottle of white pills. She put one in her mouth, but it was hard to swallow. Iris reached for the wardrobe, took the carrot whisky and downed a slug of the orange liquid to help the medicine down.

To her dismay, sleep didn’t come any more easily that night. She was still haunted by every sound and creak in the yard outside, still wary of every long shadow in her room. After an hour of restlessness, Iris hauled herself out of bed and with a heavy heart went to the wardrobe. This time she drank until she passed out on the bed.

Scrish.

Scrish.

The sound of the homemade broom scraping its heavy twigs over the concrete was beginning to annoy Iris. She and Shelley Conrad had been working on the yard of Shallow Brook Farm for well over three hours, and both girls’ backs were beginning to burn and throb with the exertion. At first it had been fun, a chance to chat and laugh about things with a girl she didn’t see all the time. But now they worked in monosyllabic silence, willing John to come to the door of the farm and call them in for lunch. Surely it must be lunchtime soon? Had he forgotten about them?