Читать книгу Land Girls: The Promise: A moving and heartwarming wartime saga - Roland Moore - Страница 9

Earlier that evening, Private First Class Joe Batch sauntered along the gravel driveway to Hoxley Manor. Stationed a few miles away in the nearby town of Brinford, Joe had never been here before. Wearing his summer fatigues uniform of khaki shirt, tie and trousers with a green belt, he glanced at fellow American soldiers dotted around the front of the house, not recognising any faces, but knowing they were comrades. He cleared his throat as he entered the cool interior of the building. He wasn’t in a hurry to get inside, but he felt he couldn’t delay it any longer. The place was just like they said it was, a slice of aristocratic history that was terribly British and terribly in need of repair. Instinctively, Joe folded his hat and tucked it into his belt as he made his way down the grand main hall towards the wards, his shoes clicking on the parquet flooring. A few months ago, the Manor had been seconded by the War Office and much of its living space converted into a makeshift medical hospital for treating men from the front lines. But it also treated men injured closer to home. Men like Private Chuck Wellings; the friend who Joe had come to see.

Asking directions from a passing nurse, Joe Batch made his way down a small side corridor. It smelt of damp, old wood and a dark stain had spread over much of the ceiling. Gee, he could renovate this place given half a chance. It would be an opportunity to use his talents as a builder and restore something to its previous splendour and beauty. But no one had time for such frivolities as renovation now. There was a war on. Joe knew that his job for the duration of the war was to serve his country in the army. Joe reached the end of a small side ward, three iron beds crammed into a glorified corridor. In the last bed was a figure wearing a bandage that covered most of his head and one eye. He was half-sitting and half-lying in bed, a newspaper in front of him, his head lolling. But Joe guessed he wasn’t taking much notice of the text.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Joe asked, flashing a warm smile with pearly white teeth.

It took a moment for Chuck to recognise his visitor. Perhaps it took a moment for his single eye to focus away from the newspaper and onto the man in front of his bed. “Joe?” Chuck cleared his throat, sounding surprised. His voice had the tell-tale catch of a man who hadn’t spoken all day. “What are you doing here?”

“They’ve run out of surgeons so I said I’d have a go. I’m sure it’s as easy as knocking up a dovetail joint.”

Chuck laughed. He was a chubby, thickset man in his early twenties, with a red face. Most people would probably say he was ‘jolly’, but this was probably the first time there had been any hint of jollity since his accident four days ago. It had been a freak ricochet from another soldier’s gun on the firing range, one second of miscalculation that had cost Chuck Wellings his eye.

Joe pulled up a chair. He twirled it around so that he could rest his arms on the frame, and sat down. In the other beds the occupants were asleep. Bandages obscured the head of one man and the other patient looked in good health until you looked down the length of his bed and realised that the shape of his body under the covers ended below the knees. Chuck was in the minority - a soldier injured on the home front. Most of the other patients at Hoxley Manor were shipped in from overseas battle fronts. Joe’s smile faltered a little. War had always seemed scary to him, but the presence of his friends joining up at the same time as him made him feel they were an invincible little band, somehow immune to the cold, harsh realities around them. It was just as it had been when they had met on the first day of high school, just as it had been on the first day they had all got jobs in their home town. Chuck had been one such friend. They’d answered the call together, along with three other pals. They’d all gone to the recruiting office and enthusiastically signed their lives away together. They were determined to beat the Nazi menace in Europe, determined to help the allies that they had read about in the newspapers and seen on the newsreels. And now the invincible little band wasn’t quite so invincible. One man down. But Joe was always the light-hearted joker of the pack, adept at being funny and charming. He knew it was his job to cheer up Chuck, even in such depressing surroundings as these. He said the first thing that came into his head, taking no time to filter his comment. But that was how the pals spoke to each other. If he pulled his punches now, Chuck would worry that things were even worse than he feared.

“Have they talked about you getting a discount at the flicks?” Joe said.

“What?”

“You’re only seeing it with one eye, man. They’ve got to give you a discount!”

Luckily, Chuck was ready to laugh, even at such an off-colour joke. Joe knew it wasn’t his best, but at least it was something. Chuck’s laugh turned to a slight grimace as the reality of his situation hit him again. The friends chatted for a few minutes. Joe told him what was happening at their barracks. Chuck thought it was unlikely that he’d return to active service, but he hoped he could come back to perform some function or other. If not, his war would be over and he’d have to go home.

“You’ll have to keep everything ticking over until the rest of us get back,” Joe said.

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Chuck replied.

Dr Richard Channing entered. A distinguished-looking, handsome man in his forties, he had been running the hospital since it opened. Joe knew there were rumours about him secretly courting the lady of the manor, but he didn’t know if they were true or not. She was a good-looking broad. Probably rich too. Channing checked the clipboard of statistics at the end of the bandaged man’s bed. He shot a quick, perfunctory smile over to Joe and Chuck, then busied himself as the men talked.

“When are you going back to Panmere Lake?” Chuck asked.

“Waiting for orders,” Joe replied.

“But I thought they wanted to get the stuff moved as quickly as they can,” Chuck said. “To somewhere more secure.” The operation to move munitions from a temporary location near Panmere Lake to more permanent surroundings had been a mission that both Joe and Chuck had been lined up for.

“Well, if you need a pair of hands. I’m so bored sitting here all day. Not even smart enough to do the crossword.” Chuck’s fingers scrunched the newspaper on his lap.

“You’ve got to concentrate on getting better. Anyway, you wouldn’t be here without a good reason.”

Dr Channing walked back over from the other side of the room. “Quite right. As soon as you’re able, we’ll have you out of here faster than you can say good old Uncle Sam.”

The soldiers smiled back. “Thanks, Doc,” Joe offered. “Got to get this guy pulling his considerable weight.”

Chuck cracked a grin and jokingly pushed his friend’s arm.

Channing replaced the patient clipboard at the end of Chuck’s bed and glided out of the room, his white coat billowing slightly behind him.

“So how’s your love life?” Chuck asked.

“You must be bored if you’re asking about that. I met a broad at a dance, a Land Girl …”

“Another one?”

“This one’s different,” Joe said, a slight edge of annoyance to his voice.

“What? Different ‘cos you haven’t had your way with her yet?”

Joe afforded himself a smile. It was probably true. Chuck knew him well. Chuck had been on enough double dates with his good-looking friend to know how skilled Joe was at chatting up women. It was unlikely that he’d ever think about settling down, especially with the war. There was a need to let off steam after all they were dealing with, a need to have fun. And if that meant courting a lot of British women, then that was fine, in Joe’s book. Chuck was different. He’d love to find the right woman and marry her straight away. But this was, Joe figured, because he didn’t have the effortless charm and good looks. Chuck’s lack of confidence meant that he would take love if it ever came his way, embracing it with grateful hands. Joe was happy to string women along, cheat and lie. It was all part of the game, as far as he was concerned. Chuck had heard Joe describe many women with the phrase ‘this one’s different’. It was baloney.

“I’ve not seen any other women since I met her at the dance, so that’s something,” Joe admitted.

“Losing your touch!” Chuck exclaimed.

“Been too busy, to be honest. But I might go and see her, get properly acquainted.”

“Heaven help her.” Although it was sometimes fun to watch Joe charm them, Chuck almost felt sorry for the women of Helmstead. They didn’t seem worldly enough or skilled in the detection of charming lotharios such as Joe Batch. He preyed on them like a wolf in a sheep enclosure. And sometimes that made Chuck feel uneasy, especially when he knew he would treat any one of those women like a queen, with respect and admiration.

Joe leaned back in his seat. He eyed a nurse who passed down the corridor. Old habits died hard. Chuck smiled at his brazen nature. When they were alone again, he returned to the conversation about Panmere Lake. The Americans had used some covered buildings near to the lake, on the other side of Helmstead, as a temporary ammunition store. Joe, a skilled carpenter, and other men in his unit, were building a new, secure storage building near to their base in Brinford. It was imperative that they move the munitions as soon as possible. At the moment, they were vulnerable to enemy attack. Joe thought his friend should be grateful to miss the hard, exhausting work of lugging the ammunition onto the trucks for transporting.

After twenty minutes, Joe said his goodbyes and sauntered away from Chuck’s ward. Reaching the main corridor, Joe unfurled his hat and positioned it back on his head. Silhouetted ahead, near the doorway, was the figure of Dr Richard Channing. He was talking to a beautiful and stately woman, a person whose aristocratic bearing was unmistakable. As Joe got closer, he could see her sandy hair neatly curled around her fine bone structure, the thin, porcelain-hued neck. He guessed she was Lady Ellen Hoxley. Channing moved aside to let Joe pass and they both glanced briefly at him. Joe knew enough about affairs and illicit looks to know that those two were seeing each other. The subtle hints in their body language, the angles they stood at in relation to each other, the imperceptible touches. He smirked, knowing their secret, as he walked down the gravel path, away from the big house.

He decided that he would visit that Land Girl tomorrow. Yes, that’s what he’d do.

The next morning, shouts could be heard from the kitchen of Pasture Farm.

“Mind you get the collar! I need the collar doing.” Finch poked a stubby finger at his best white shirt; a shirt that was currently stretched across the ironing board. He was leaning over Esther’s shoulder as she ironed it for him, an unskilled manager of such things. Esther’s patience was wearing thin at his interference.

“I have ironed a shirt before, you know,” she snapped. She shot a long-suffering look at the Land Girls sitting around the farmhouse table near by. Joyce was eating a slice of toast as Finch busied himself around Esther like a bumble bee harassing a flower. Dolores O’Malley stared wistfully into her mug of tea, not quite awake, but lost in her own thoughts as usual.

“Where’s Iris?” Joyce asked.

“Will you leave it!” Esther snapped at Finch, who was attempting to hold down part of the collar for her.

“Shouldn’t she be up by now?” Joyce continued.

“Maybe she’s having a lie-in until six o’clock,” Dolores replied with a smirk.

Esther finished ironing the shirt and Finch plucked it off the board. “Very nice job, Esther.” He giggled as he stretched it onto a wooden coat hanger. He glided over the floor with it, as if he had some ethereal dance partner, and hung it on the picture rail next to the larder. The shirt looked immaculate for about four seconds, until the hanger fell from the picture rail, crashing to the floor and leaving the shirt in a crumpled heap.

“Fred!” Esther scolded, going to retrieve it. Finch, for his part, looked genuinely aggrieved. Joyce hadn’t seen him this agitated in ages. Usually he was a man who cared little for his appearance, but in the last week, she had witnessed Esther cutting Finch’s hair and Finch wearing his best hat into Helmstead. Gone too were the trousers with holes in the pockets and his shabby cardigan. He’d even bought a brand-new leather belt from Mr Yardley in the town to replace the string that he had been using recently. Finch wouldn’t win the Picturegoer magazine’s Best-Dressed Man Award any time soon, but his appearance had definitely improved.

“Do you think it’ll be all right?” Finch asked nervously.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Esther smiled, finishing a brisk iron of the shirt. “Just relax and enjoy yourself.”

Finch nodded. He’d try his best. Joyce thought it was sweet. She watched Finch amble out of the door into the yard outside.

“He’s not meeting her now, is he?” Joyce asked.

“Not until this afternoon. He’ll look a right state by then!” Esther laughed. Joyce and Esther were used to witnessing the love lives of the various girls on the farm and the estate, but both were surprised that they were now seeing Finch courting a woman. He’d shown little interest in women since his wife had passed away, but this lady had seemingly knocked him for six. Both women were surprised by the changes in him. But it was lovely to see him with a spring in his step, even if they feared for the inevitable disappointing end to the relationship. Could she be as keen as he was? Would his enthusiasm put her off? Esther feared that she would have to pick up the pieces when that happened. But for now, he was happy.

Joyce finished her last crust, wiped her hands on her overalls and asked Esther, “Do you want me to go up for Iris?”

Esther shook her head. “I’ll do it in a minute, when I’ve got the ironing board put away.”

The truth was she didn’t know why Iris was always late down in the mornings. She wondered if the girl was staying up too late, talking to Frank in his shed. Maybe she should have a word with her and limit their late-night conversations to weekends? As the warden in charge of the Women’s Land Army girls, Esther had the power to do that. It was her duty to ensure that the girls were fit for their work. The work was the priority. But she knew that Iris viewed Frank, and Fred, for that matter, as father figures, and she knew the girl was relieved that she’d managed to save him from the gallows after the murder of Walter Storey. Iris and Frank’s relationship seemed to be something they both valued. However, these late starts couldn’t continue. Esther glanced at the clock. It was five to six. Even for Iris, it was unlike her to be so late …

Esther stowed the ironing board in the pantry, chivvied Dolores to follow Joyce into the fields and went through to the foot of the stairs. “Iris!” she called up. There was no reply. With a reluctant sigh, Esther trudged up the wooden stairs, muttering that she had better things to do than molly-coddling her girls. At the top of the stairs was the landing that split off into the various Land Girls’ rooms. Esther knocked on one of the doors.

Nothing.

Esther tried the handle. It was locked. She sighed, cursing Iris under her breath. What had she told them about locking doors? If anything happened, there was no way to get inside to them. Esther rapped on the door.

“Come on, Iris! Move your bones!”

Joyce and Dolores were packing tools onto a wheelbarrow when they caught sight of a strange figure in the far corner of the yard. They nudged each other and stifled their urge to laugh. It was Finch, dressed in his best suit and wearing his freshly pressed shirt. He straightened his collar and pulled his jacket around his portly frame. He cleared his throat.

“May I have the pleasure?” he asked, offering his hands outstretched.

“What’s he doing?” Dolores asked.

But Joyce couldn’t see past Finch’s ample body to see who he was talking to. Then Finch twirled around and Joyce had to stifle another giggle. The farmer had a broom in his arms and was dancing across the yard, eyes closed in solemn concentration. Joyce pressed a hand against Dolores, forcing them both out of view behind a tractor. She knew Finch would be embarrassed if he was caught practising his dance moves.

As Joyce and Dolores walked to the fields, Joyce commented that she thought it was sweet that Finch had found someone else. He’d been a widower for years and years, since his son, Billy, was born. Finally he had found a new person to share things with. Joyce wondered to herself whether she could ever love anyone besides her beloved John. It seemed unlikely. She and John had been childhood sweethearts, marrying before the war started. It had been their love that had saved them from dying, when the Coventry bombings occurred, Joyce had been with John in Birmingham. Joyce had lost her entire family that night as her family home had been levelled by German bombs. When she returned to the devastated streets of her home town, John had helped her sift through the wretched remains of her house, finding such grim artefacts as Joyce’s sister’s dress and the front of the radio that had been in the front parlour. John had been there to comfort her. Such was their bond that Joyce found it physically painful when John joined the RAF, flying dangerous bombing missions of his own.

But now John was back home. And closer than ever. John Fisher had been invalided out of service and was now doing his bit by trying to run the neighbouring Shallow Brook Farm. Vernon’s old farm.

Esther rapped again on Iris’s bedroom door. Where was that girl?

A few seconds’ silence, but then the sound of the bolt being slipped back.

A sleepy Iris Dawson opened the door. Seeing Esther’s face with its stern expression told her all she needed to know about what time it was. “You’re late. Again,” Esther said. Iris ran in a panic back into the room, hoisting her nightdress over her head as she went.

“Sorry, Esther. I really am,” Iris said, her voice muffled by the garment covering her face. “I had a nightmare and then I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

“I don’t want your excuses.” Esther went to the chest of drawers and looked for a shirt for the girl. The drawers were empty. Esther glanced at the chair in the corner of the room, where a small pile of unwashed laundry formed a fabric hillock. Oblivious to this, Iris was fastening her bra.

“You don’t have any clean shirts,” Esther said, plucking her way through the clothes. It was the girls’ responsibility to ensure that their clothing was put out for washing. Esther would clean their uniforms, but she wasn’t going to go hunting for shirts and trousers around the house.

“This one will have to do,” Iris replied, taking one at random.

“I want you to sort all of this out tonight, you hear?” Esther scolded. “Never mind seeing Frank Tucker tonight. This is more important.”

Iris nodded meekly as she fastened a shirt that had a beetroot stain on the left breast pocket.

“And we need to talk about you and your attitude.”

“I haven’t got an attitude,” Iris replied.

“You’re a girl who wakes late every morning and whose mind isn’t on the job. That’s attitude, in my book.” And Esther was gone. Her technique in these situations was to let the other person think about her words for most of the day. She was always letting people stew. Iris sighed, searching the pile for a pair of trousers that weren’t too muddy. Her head was throbbing and her throat felt dry. She cursed herself for drinking. She guessed that Esther was right. She had been late most mornings. But she couldn’t help it.

By lunchtime, her throbbing headache had blossomed into a bloom of pain in her temples and Iris was grateful to be asked to clear some fallen branches in the East Field, a location remote enough from the farmhouse to allow her a few minutes’ breather. She picked up some sticks and started to assemble a pile that could be used as firewood. Some of the larger branches had to be stripped of leaves before they could be used. Iris used a small knife to cut them away. Finally by mid-afternoon, the relaxed pace of her own work and the silence of being alone had eased the pain in her head. Iris felt tired and decided she wouldn’t drink tonight. That had been a mistake. But the drink had helped her get to sleep, shutting out the fears racing around her brain. She wouldn’t drink again. But, of course, it was easy to keep such a promise in a sunny field in the afternoon. It was far more difficult to stick to promises at night, when every creak on the stairs or every shifting shadow could terrify her.

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

And her nightmares and imagination were becoming more vivid and disturbing. Iris wished that she could stop thinking about him. But her mind just wouldn’t stop. Each time she looked in the bathroom mirror, she would scare herself by imagining Vernon’s face in the reflection. Iris tried to put the thoughts out of her mind. She continued her work, keen to fill her thoughts with the business of firewood collection and leaf stripping. Keep your mind on the things you can control. But things had been slowly getting out of control. The nightmares were causing problems. Cracks were starting to show. Maybe a little drink to control things wasn’t such a bad idea …

Suddenly she heard a twig crack.

“Hello?” Iris shouted, fear taking hold of her. Had she seen a man walk behind a tree? Get a grip, Iris. She bent down and picked up a solid length of branch, brandishing it like a club. She edged towards where she thought she had seen a man hiding.

It must be a trick of the light. An overactive imagination, that’s all. There wouldn’t be anyone there, not this far out.

Could there?

Feeling the thump-thump of her heart in her chest, Iris reached the tree. She was just about to rush behind it when a man’s hands thrust out at her. Iris cracked the tree branch across his knuckles.

“Youch!” Private First Class Joe Batch shouted.

Iris dropped the stick and rushed to help him. His fingers were red, but the skin was unbroken.

“So sorry!”

“What the hell are you -?”

“I might ask you the same thing!” Iris stormed, anger coming to the fore. “Why were you creeping up on me?”

“I was trying to surprise you,” Joe admitted.

“I think I surprised you more.” Iris smiled kindly, her fury subsiding. “Come over to the farmhouse and I’ll get Esther to look at your fingers.”

“They’re okay, no real damage.” Joe grinned. “This is all part of getting to know you. For instance, I know you ain’t the type of girl who likes surprises. Logged and recorded.”

“I don’t mind surprises. Just don’t like strange men creeping up on me.”

“Strange?”

“You know what I mean.”

Joe nodded, as if conceding it was a fair enough point. Then, seeing the Land Girls in the distance and knowing that Iris might have to get back to work, he decided that he’d better get to the matter in hand, the reason for his visit.

“I came to see if you fancied coming to the pictures on Friday night?”

“What’s on?”

“Does it matter?” Joe said, amused.

“Yes,” Iris said, confused. She felt out of her depth. Her experience of men could be written on a very small piece of card. Was this part of flirting? She had no real idea, but she decided that she kind of enjoyed it. It was fun when she’d referred to him as strange and she guessed that was flirting, wasn’t it? “I mean, we should know what we’re going to see.”

“It’s a Gary Cooper. Does that win your approval?”

“Possibly,” Iris said, thinking fast as to what Connie might say in this situation. She decided a joke was in order. “Depends if there’s a supporting feature.”

“Newsreels?”

Iris pondered this with mock severity before agreeing, “Sold. It’s a deal.”

“It’s a date.” Joe Batch smiled and started to head off across the fields. Iris watched him go, proud that she had a date to look forward to, and proud that she had managed to flirt with him without becoming tongue-tied. Being around Connie must be rubbing off on her. It was reassuring that Joe was interested in her after all. Something to take her mind off Vernon, at least.

Later, as the rest of the girls stopped for a breather and mug of tea, Iris wandered away, not in the mood to talk. She looked at the folded-up letter that she had started to write with Frank. She felt joy in her heart that day for the image of her mother reading it. Iris sat by a tree, the sun dappling her face through the canopy of leaves. She was dimly aware of the chatter of the other girls by the tractor. They were discussing a trip to the flicks. It seemed that Joyce was keen to see the new Gary Cooper too. Dolores had more mundane concerns and was wondering why her tea tasted funny. Their voices became a low buzz of reassuring noise in Iris’s ears, the warmth of the sun feeling good against her face. She felt herself relaxing, her eyes drooping shut. She didn’t fight it. It would only be a little doze for a few minutes …

Except it wasn’t.

“Iris!” Connie shouted, “Wake up!”

Iris awoke with a start to see an angry-looking Connie looming over her. “It’s nearly supper time.”

Iris realised that the sky was a darker blue than it had been before. How long had she been asleep? Connie was already marching away, back towards the farmhouse, in no mood for a discussion. “I’ve got to meet Henry tonight. Got better things to do than search for you.”

And Connie shouted back to an unseen group as loudly as she could. “Found her!”

With growing unease, Iris realised that other figures were dotted around the edges of the East Field. Joyce, Dolores and a thunder-faced Esther, who was making a beeline across to her. The last vestiges of sleepiness fell instantly away. Oh God.

“We need to talk, young lady. No excuses. We need to find out what’s going on!”

As night descended, Esther, Frank and Joyce sat around the kitchen table. A subdued Iris sat at the end of the table, her throbbing headache having returned with a vengeance. She nursed a small glass of water as the stern faces around her tried to work out what to do. Esther had sent Martin off to find Finch, as everyone thought he should be here for this meeting. This examination. Iris knew that Finch would be annoyed to be pulled away from his afternoon date. This wasn’t going to end well for her.

“You’re our friend, Iris. Tell us what’s on your mind?” Joyce implored.

“I don’t know,” Iris mumbled. Esther rolled her eyes. She wasn’t in the mood for vague answers, or winkling the truth out of people. She wanted something concrete that she could work with. If it was a problem with being bullied or a problem caused by overwork, then Esther could sort that out and help fix it. But she needed something tangible to go on. Evasive answers were no use at all.

Esther pulled something from under the table and placed it for all to see. It was Billy Finch’s bottle of carrot whisky.

“You’ve been drinking in your room!” Esther thundered.

“It’s not mine.”

“That’s as maybe. But look -”

And Esther turned the bottle around. On the side was a black line near the neck of the bottle. The level of the orange liquid was a long way below it. “Billy marked this, so I know it’s gone down since you’ve been in that room.”

Iris slumped.

“Tell them what’s troubling you, Iris,” Frank said. He nodded his head and gave a half-smile by way of encouragement. He knew what it was, but he wanted Iris to tell it in her own words. To tell the others. “Tell them why you needed a drink. A problem shared and all that.”

“Well?” Esther asked.

Iris took a deep breath. “I think Vernon’s coming back for me.”

She felt the mix of reactions in the room. Esther’s slight snort that betrayed disbelief, Joyce’s concerned face and Frank’s impassive reaction. He’d heard Iris voice these worries before, during their writing lessons in the shed. Iris went on to say she felt ridiculous. She knew he was gone but it was just that each time she was alone, she’d think about him. And his final words.

“I’ll come back for you, Iris.”

It was like a dark promise. And no matter how she tried to rationalise it, she couldn’t make it fade from her mind. He promised to come back and it terrified her.

“He’s not coming back. That’s the end of it. Now pull yourself together,” Esther said. “You’ve got to get a grip on your thoughts and stop them running away with you, young lady!”

“But what if he does come back?” Iris replied. She could feel rawness at the back of her throat. She was ready to cry. Why did she think they would understand when she knew herself it sounded ridiculous? “Part of me wants to do something and find him first, but I know I can’t do that. And I know I’m being stupid, but I just can’t stop it.” And then the tears came, as if vocalising her fears had broken down any last control over her thoughts. The sobbing was loud, wretched. A shocked Joyce put a comforting hand on her friend’s wrist, but still the tears came.

Esther turned to Frank and Joyce. “I’ll see the doctor and find out if he can give her something to calm her down.”

“I just need …” But Iris trailed off. That was the problem. What did she need? The problem wouldn’t be fixed by having a stronger lock on her bedroom door. It was something inside her head. The last words of a murderer. The promise. She knew the nightmares would continue, even though she desperately wanted them to end.

Eyes blurred with tears, Iris scraped her chair back on the tiled floor and went to her room. Ignoring Esther’s calls to come back. Iris slammed the door behind her and felt torn that she wasn’t allowed to lock it tonight. She slumped on the bed. And then she found her reddened eyes drawn towards the wardrobe. Logic told her that she shouldn’t drink tonight. But she felt so wretched and desperate. And then she remembered that Esther had the bottle. Iris thought for a moment, and then, knowing that Finch kept more of his whisky under the stairs, Iris crept back down. She could hear the voices talking softly with concern beyond in the kitchen. Stealthily, she opened the cupboard under the stairs, reached in and took a full bottle of whisky. She scurried back to her room, closed the door and then opened the bottle, ready for its reassurance of numbing oblivion.

Finch placed his pint glass down, its sides etched with thin, cloud formations of beer foam. He was aware that he was drinking faster than his companion. Evelyn Gray had barely finished a quarter of her small glass of cider. Finch resolved to slow down. The problem was that his nerves meant he needed something to do with his hands, and that meant lifting the glass up and down to his lips and before he knew it, it was gone! Glancing around the room of the snug bar in the Bottle and Glass, he suddenly envied the men smoking cigarettes. They always had something to do with their hands, the performance of rolling a cigarette, lighting it, smoking it. Finch wished that he could smoke. But the truth was he had never got on with it, finding that the smallest puff would reduce him to a hacking, retching wreck. And that wasn’t the ideal look he wanted to achieve on a night like this. An evening with his new lady friend, Evelyn.

Evelyn Gray was glamorous, but not in an over-the-top way. She was well turned-out in the latest fashions, but she wore them with a dignity that befitted a lady in her early fifties. Thick, naturally blonde hair was pinned into curls on her head, and her blue eyes stared at Finch with warmth and a hint of intriguing mystery. Finch wished he knew what women thought about. He knew he was thinking about whether to have another pint of beer: simple, straightforward thoughts for a simple man. But he guessed that a woman like Evelyn was thinking deeper thoughts than that. She was probably going over Churchill’s latest address to the nation or thinking about the logistics of rationing.

“Would you like another drink, Evelyn?” Finch stammered.

“I’ve still got this one, Fred.” She giggled.

Finch giggled too. He felt suddenly foolish, suddenly aware of his awkwardness and clumsy nature. His collar suddenly felt very warm and tight around his neck. The truth was, he felt out of his depth with this attractive, clever woman. Finch searched his brain for something to talk about. Something clever. Something that would impress her. Maybe he could tell her about the growing patterns of the turnip? He frowned inwardly at his own brain trying to make him look stupid. He was doing badly without further self-sabotage. But thankfully, Evelyn was quite capable of offering a conversational topic of her own.

“So tell me more about Pasture Farm. How long have you been there?”

“Came there after the war,” Finch said, before needlessly correcting himself. “The last one, not this one.”

“Of course.” Evelyn smiled.

Finch was grateful that he could make her laugh. He continued his story, feeling suddenly wistful for those lost days. “After it was all over, I was looking for work. Ended up at the farm working as a labourer. The farmer in charge, a chap called Godfrey, taught me everything I know and most of what I’ve forgotten. When he died, Lady Hoxley asked if I wanted to try running the place on my own. And that’s where I’ve been ever since. I’ve seen some times there, at Pasture Farm. Got married there. Saw my son being born there. My wife passing away. Watched my son go off to a war of his own. We had a big going-away party for that …”

Finch’s mind drifted off, as memories filled his head. He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he gasped when he felt Evelyn place a comforting hand on his across the table.

“It’s good to remember the past, Fred,” she said, kindly. “Don’t ever forget the past.”

“Yeah. I’ve got a grandson too, you know.”

“You don’t look old enough!” Evelyn smiled. Finch grinned, realising she was joking.

“Get away with you!”

They sipped their drinks at the same time. Finch was pleased that he had slowed down. But he was still thinking about his next one. Evelyn continued the conversation, “What is it like having all those Land Girls around the place?”

“It means I can be a bit more, erm, like a manager.” He smiled. “It’s really good because I don’t have to get my hands dirty as much, with all of them doing it all. Truth is, I haven’t planted a potato since this war started!”

They giggled together. “No, they’re a good bunch of girls,” Finch said.

“And there are two farms on the Hoxley estate, aren’t there?” Evelyn sipped at her cider.

“Pasture Farm and Shallow Brook Farm,” Finch confirmed. “My one is the better farm, if I do say so myself. Shallow Brook was run by the Storeys. Have you heard of Vernon Storey?”

Evelyn shook her head. She lived on the outskirts of Brinford, so there was no reason why she would know many people in Helmstead.

“Nasty piece of work.” Finch scrunched his face as if he’d sucked on a lemon. “Wanted for murder, you know?”

“Oh gosh,” Evelyn said. “What happened? Was it one of the Land Girls?”

Finch leaned in close to tell her. “No, his own son.”

Evelyn wanted to know more, but Finch didn’t want to spoil their evening with the whole sorry tale of Frank Tucker and Walter Storey, and how Iris had discovered the truth about Walter’s murder. It would put a bit of a dampener on things. No, he wanted to make Evelyn laugh again. He liked it when she laughed because her eyes twinkled and she’d arch her head back. Suddenly Finch wondered if he was falling for Evelyn Gray.

“So I’ve taken over the other farm. Surprised meself, because I can barely manage one place let alone two!”

It had the desired effect. Evelyn’s face broke into an amused grin and she arched her head slightly.

“Got some help, though. Martin, the warden’s son, and John Fisher - he’s married to one of my girls - are sorting the place out for me.”

“Sounds like you’re busy?” Evelyn smiled warmly.

“Which is exactly why I need relaxing nights out like this!” Finch got up. “I’ll get us another round, shall I?”

“All right. But that will be enough for me.”

“Me too,” Finch said. As he carried the glasses to the bar, he glanced back to where Evelyn was checking her face in a powder compact. He had known her two weeks and they were getting on famously. Finch hadn’t noticed her at the dance. As far as he was concerned, he’d clocked eyes on her for the first time at one of Lady Hoxley’s agricultural shows. Finch had been showing his prize pig, Chamberlain, and was trying to get the pig into a gated enclosure. Evelyn and a group of women had been watching and Finch felt the weight of expectation upon him as he’d tried to manhandle the heavy animal.

“Come on, you blighter!”

But Chamberlain had turned quickly, taking Finch off balance, and the stout farmer had fallen face first into the mud. While some of the women couldn’t help but laugh, Evelyn looked concerned and ran to his aid.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“No. Only me pride,” Finch replied.

“Let me help you.” And Finch had been surprised to see Evelyn outstretch her arms and try to corner Chamberlain in a bid to edge him closer to the paddock. She was gamely trying her best, but Chamberlain easily side-stepped her. Soon, Finch and Evelyn were working together in a pincer movement to cut off the pig’s escape route. Finally, after several failed attempts and some swearing from Finch, they managed to get Chamberlain into the pen. Finch slid the bolt across with a triumphant smile and mopped his brow with the back of his hand.

“Thanks for your help, Mrs -?” Finch outstretched his hand to shake hers, but she scrunched up her nose instead. Finch looked down and realised his hand was covered in mud. “I’ll wash it first.”

“Then I’ll shake it.” Evelyn laughed.

And since then, they had seen each other three times. Two pub outings, including this one, and a trip to an entertainment show at the village hall. Finch was very happy with his new friend. Evelyn was happy too.

As Finch brought the drinks back to the table, he was surprised to see that a visitor had arrived by Evelyn’s side. It was Martin Reeves, out of breath having run all the way from Pasture Farm.

“Mr Finch!” he gasped. “You have to come back. It’s Iris!”

“What is it?”

“Mum is worried about her. She’s gone to her room.”

“Well, can’t it wait?”

Martin shrugged. He wasn’t sure. “She just told me to get you. She’s worried that Iris has been drinking.”

“You want me to come back just so I can discipline Iris?”

“Mum said it was important. Sorry.”

Finch nodded, sighed and started to get his coat and hat. He said a hurried goodbye to the understanding Evelyn and made his way out of the pub to follow Martin back to the farmhouse.

When they got there, Finch placed his Homberg hat on the coat stand and started to take off his overcoat, with help from Martin. Finch’s face was etched with concern as he glanced at Esther, thoughts of his romantic evening fading from his mind.

“How is Iris?” Finch asked.

“Asleep, I think,” Esther replied. “Sorry to interrupt your night.”

“No, this is more important.” But Esther could see the hint of disappointment on Finch’s face. She knew he’d been looking forward to it for some time. She couldn’t help but notice that the shirt she had ironed was now looking creased and dirty, but she didn’t say anything. As Martin made a cup of tea for everyone, Esther and Joyce told Finch what had been happening. They all agreed on what was the root of the problem. Iris was obsessed with the thought of Vernon coming back for her. She was imagining that she could see him and hear him, and she would have regular nightmares about him coming to kill her. And this was causing her to mess up at work, her mind too distracted to focus on the job in hand. They all wanted to sort this out.

“She’s a bright girl, but she’s obsessed about this. And nothing we can say seems to stop her thinking about it,” Frank said.

“How about if we get Dr Channing up at Hoxley Manor to take a look at her?” Esther suggested. “If there is something wrong in Iris’s mind, he might be able to treat it.”

“She just needs a distraction. Something to take her mind off it,” Joyce said.

“We’ve got to sort her out because she’s pretty much good for nothing on the farm,” Esther snapped.

“Yeah, we’re all agreed we’ve got to do something. But what?” Finch said.

“I think we should vote on it,” Esther announced. Joyce looked uncertain. She didn’t like the thought of voting, somewhat arbitrarily, on someone else’s future.

“All right.” Frank nodded. “All those in favour of taking her mind off things?”

Joyce put her hand up. She was the only one. She put it down again, despondently. “So much for that, then.”

“All those in favour of getting her seen by Dr Channing?” Esther said, raising her own hand.

Joyce shrugged and reluctantly stuck her hand in the air. It was probably the best thing. Channing might be able to cure the root of the problem, whereas something like going to a dance would only be a temporary sticking plaster. Frank added his own hand to the vote.

“Fred?” Esther said, turning to Finch.

“All right, then,” he replied, adding himself to the vote. “Here, this is like one of those Women’s Institute meetings, isn’t it? All voting on what to do. Except we’re not making loads of jam.”

“I’ll have you know we don’t just make jam. Bloody cheek. Anyway, this is the closest you’re going to get to one of those meetings.” Esther smiled. “Motion carried. I’ll talk to the doctor in the morning.”

But as she and the others debated what to do, they didn’t realise that Iris was sitting at the top of the stairs formulating her own plan of action. Her head felt pleasantly fuzzy from a few numbing slugs of carrot whisky and she had decided what to do. Holding the bottle in her hand, she felt her head swaying and her cheeks flushing. Suddenly it all seemed clear. The answer. And she had to do something fast as she didn’t want to be seen by Dr Channing.

She decided she would go back to the place where Vernon Storey had made his promise.

I’ll come back for you.

Tomorrow, she would return to Shallow Brook Farm and confront her demons head on.