Land Girls, The Promise Read online

  “I don’t want you coming again,” he said. “This isn’t how I want you to remember me.”

  “Don’t talk daft. You’ll be back,” Iris said bravely. “You’ve got to help me finish writing a letter home, haven’t you?”

  “Someone else will have to teach you.” He nodded, closing the matter in his mind. Iris felt a little foolish for trying to lighten the mood at the wrong moment.

  “I mean it, Iris. You forget about all this. Remember those evenings when you’d be chewing your pencil and I’d be helping you trace the alphabet. You remember those times, eh? Not these ones.”

  Iris knew better than to question such finality. His mind was made up and any entreaties she made would likely make his veneer of control snap. And she didn’t want to show that lack of respect to a man she admired. So she decided it would be best to come straight to the point and tell him what had troubled her at the graveyard.

  “There’s just one thing I don’t understand. Why did Walter come back for a rematch?” she asked.

  Frank looked puzzled. She guessed that it all seemed a bit irrelevant to him now. What did it matter? As far as he was concerned, he’d killed a man and that was that.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw Walter Storey walk away from that fight a few minutes after you left.”

  “Yeah, but he died from what I did to him. The body is a strange old thing. Maybe it took time for the injury to kill him.”

  “What was he like after the fight?” Iris persisted.

  Frank rubbed the bridge of his nose and thought about what had happened. “We’d had the fight. I’d given Storey a beating and left him in the barn. The boy wasn’t unconscious or anything. There didn’t seem to be any cause for concern.”

  “And what happened then?”

  “What are you getting at?” But Iris’s insistent look made Frank realise that she needed an answer. “I walked to my shed and got on with mending a couple of rakes. That’s when you came to see me.”

  “But I saw Walter leave the barn.”

  “What are you saying?” Frank was clearly confused by what she was trying to tell him, so Iris decided she had to spell it out.

  “You must have had another fight with him. A rematch?”

  Frank shook his head. No, definitely not. “Maybe he came back to the barn looking for me and then collapsed?”

  Now it was Iris’s turn to sigh. She hadn’t thought of that option. “Maybe,” she whispered, deflated. The discussion seemed to make Frank withdraw into himself and a brooding silence filled the small room. There seemed to be nothing else to say.

  As she wished Frank well and left the police station, Iris struggled not to show Frank that she was upset. Stiff upper lip and all that. It seemed to be how he wanted to play it too. There would be no big, tearful goodbye, just a matter-of-fact parting of the ways. The last moments of a friendship. She walked with unsteady legs down the steps of Helmstead Police Station, her mind more confused than ever. She decided that she had to see Vernon again.

  “‘Ere, I told you loads of times, I don’t like pickle!” Connie protested, as she unwrapped her sandwich and realised that Esther had given her just that on her cheese. Esther shook her head and apologised. She rooted in her wicker trug for another sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper. She found one with a ‘C’ written on the side.

  “Here’s yours, Little Miss Fusspot,” Esther said.

  “I can’t help it.” Connie handed back the offending sandwich in exchange. “Pickle’s unnatural, innit?”

  “I like it,” Joyce commented.

  “Well, you’re unnatural.” Connie smiled.

  As the friends joked and started their lunches in the West Field, Iris took her greaseproof parcel with her and trotted across the yard. She could feel the other girls looking pityingly at her as she went.

  “She’s lost without that Frank, isn’t she?” Connie said.

  “Terrible business,” Joyce replied.

  When Iris was out of sight, she increased her speed, running in a jog all the way out of the gates of Pasture Farm. She ran down the lane, avoiding the pot holes as if she was playing hopscotch, and soon came to the neighbouring farm. Shallow Brook Farm. The Storeys’ farm. Unlike Pasture Farm, this place looked deserted, a dark shell with decaying tractors and machines standing in a yard overgrown with weeds. Iris made her way towards the farmhouse. She rapped on the slatted wooden door, paint flakes peeling away on her knuckles. How many summers ago had this place been painted?

  There was no answer. And yet, the door slowly creaked open. Vernon had left it unlocked.

  Iris poked her head into the hallway, where a broken mahogany barometer pointed towards snow.

  “Hello? Anyone here?” Iris shouted.

  Nothing came back.

  Iris’s heart was pounding. She had come to see Vernon, but perhaps it was a good thing that he wasn’t home. She could look inside and have a nose around. A regular Miss Marple. Should she do this? She didn’t even know what she was looking for. Perhaps some sign that Walter had returned home before going back to the barn? What would that prove? Iris wasn’t sure. All she knew was that a man’s life was at stake here and if something was niggling her about the order of events, then she had to put her mind at rest. Something wasn’t right. Iris wished for a moment that she had Miss Marple’s abilities.

  She moved cautiously from the hallway into the dining room. The fireplace smouldered with yesterday’s fire. A garish red-patterned rug filled much of the floor space, held down by dark-wooden furniture dotted around the room. A bureau stacked with paperwork and bills. A telephone on a side table. An armchair with worn hand rests. She guessed this was Vernon’s chair as his glasses rested on the edge next to a rolled-up newspaper. Iris tentatively moved across the room.

  “Hello?” she shouted, feeling perhaps that she was covering herself from accusations of breaking and entering.

  Again there was no reply. It was likely that Vernon Storey was holding some kind of wake in the Bottle and Glass, regaling people with tales of his son.

  Iris moved towards the bureau.

  Crack!

  It barely made a sound, but something crunched under her foot. She looked down and peeled the edge of the rug back. A long sliver of glass from a bottle had broken in two. But as Iris examined it, she could see something sticky along one edge. A dark liquid. In sudden horror she realised that it was blood. Could it be Walter’s blood? They said he had a wound on his head. Was this evidence? What would Miss Marple do? Her mind was racing. Thinking quickly, she plucked her handkerchief from her pocket and, as if it was a small, injured bird, carefully wrapped the glass up. Suddenly she knew she had to get out of there; show PC Thorne what she had found.

  “Can I help you, Iris?” A soft voice, weary.

  Iris span around to find Vernon in the doorway. He was blinking in the light, his face more crumpled than usual. Had he been drinking? Sleeping? It didn’t matter. He was here and that was a problem. Iris hid the handkerchief behind her back.

  “I came to … pay my respects,” she stammered.

  “Again?” A note of suspicion in his voice, his shrewish eyes suddenly alert and scanning her face.

  “Yes.” Slowly, Iris slipped the handkerchief into her pocket.

  “And that was all you came for?” Vernon took a step towards her. He was a short man, but his personality gave him a threatening demeanour. Iris struggled to stop herself taking a step backwards. She knew it wouldn’t play well if she showed fear. If she was paying her respects, then she shouldn’t show fear, should she?

  “Anyway, I’d better get back. Esther will be wondering …” Iris smiled as winningly as she could manage. She took a step towards the door, aware that Vernon was still blocking any escape.

  “Stay a little longer,” he rasped, his words somewhere in that uncertain area between a threat and a pleasant invitation. “Have a drink to my Walter, eh? If you’ve come to pay your respects …”

&nb
sp; He crossed to the sideboard, where a motley and dusty collection of bottles formed a drinks ‘cabinet’. Now the door was unblocked. There was a gap and Iris could make a run for it. But she didn’t want Vernon to suspect that anything was wrong; she didn’t want to alert his suspicions. After all, even if she got past him, she’d have to outrun him all the way back to Pasture Farm.

  “I’d better … you know.” Iris glanced towards the door. To her surprise and relief, he nodded his consent. And as he busied himself pouring a drink at the sideboard, Iris started to walk towards the door, as slowly and as normally as she could manage. She thought she had got away with it, when, without turning his back, Vernon asked a soft and unnerving question.

  “What’s that in your pocket, Iris?”

  She felt her mouth go instantly dry, her breathing becoming more rapid. She stopped in her tracks. He’d noticed what she was doing. How much had he seen?

  “Nothing,” she stammered.

  Now he turned to her. A dark smile on his lips as he looked into her scared eyes. There was no hiding what she felt now.

  “You put something in your pocket.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Vernon put his drink down and edged towards her. “Have you been stealing from me, Iris?”

  She shook her head. “No, Mr Storey. I wouldn’t do that.”

  He glanced down towards her pocket, where the end of the handkerchief was poking out. “Show me, then.” Carefully, Iris cupped her fingers around her handkerchief, hoping she could bring the bundle out without its contents falling onto the floor.

  “It’s just my handkerchief.” The wrapped fabric was clasped tightly in her hand.

  To her surprise, Vernon snatched it from her, grasping her wrist tightly with his other hand. As he took it, the handkerchief opened and the fragment of glass fell onto the rug, glinting in the light as it tumbled. They both knew the truth now.

  “No one likes a liar, Iris.”

  “Let me go.” She knew that she had to escape now. There was no point in pretending that she could talk her way out of this one. But Vernon wasn’t about to let go of her wrist. She clawed at his fingers with her free hand, trying to release his grip. He kept a tight grip on her, staring impassively at her. They moved a few steps: a dark, silent dance as Iris tried to free herself, Vernon clasping tightly. Iris felt her head swimming. They were like a couple on the verge of a massive argument, trying to maintain some semblance of control and decency. But Iris realised she would have to do more to escape. She would have to make a scene. She was about to slap him, claw him, do something, when he moved with surprising speed and ferocity towards her.

  Vernon grabbed Iris’s neck and pushed her backwards until she felt the bureau hit the small of her back. She tried to lash out, but he grabbed her clawed hand and pushed her over the desk. On her back, Iris flailed and kicked, desperate to escape. She couldn’t scream as Vernon had his fingers clasped around her throat. She tried to kick again, but only succeeded in upturning the nearby telephone table. The telephone clattered to the floor, the receiver coming away from its cradle.

  “Please don’t …” she gasped.

  “What?” he growled.

  “Kill me.”

  Vernon let out a tight, unnerving laugh. “Why would I do that, you stupid girl?”

  “I know what you did.”

  Vernon’s brow furrowed. Still grasping her throat, tears came to his eyes. He seemed to sag, much like Frank had when he had heard the news about Walter. It was as if her words had ripped away his layers of desperate subterfuge, making it plain that this situation wasn’t going to go away.

  “That’s a dangerous accusation.”

  “How could you kill your own son?” Iris said, emboldened by the reaction her words were having.

  “Shut your mouth.” A low rumble of anger, his fingers tightening around her windpipe. Iris felt her head swimming, as her lungs fought for air. “Do you think I wanted to do it?”

  “You’re hurting me …” It was barely a squawk, as Iris couldn’t gasp enough air to speak.

  Vernon didn’t seem to hear. He was lost in his own justifications for what had happened. “Walter made me lose my temper. I just lashed out. Didn’t think. Didn’t even know I had the bottle in my hand.” Vernon’s eyes were distant, lost in regret and torment. “As he fell, I knew what I’d done. Even before he hit the floor, Iris, I knew what I’d done. Don’t you see?”

  At last, he released his grip and Iris gasped for air. He was still looming over her as her back rested on the bureau. From the corner of her eye, she saw a tractor brochure offering a brand-new machine for rental. Iris wondered if it would be one of the last things she ever saw.

  “What are you going to do with me?”

  Vernon took a step back, releasing his weight from her. He clutched his forehead and shook his head in a violent, distressed manner, as if he didn’t want to be here, in this situation, any more that Iris did.

  “I can’t let you leave, can I?” The words came out tinged with regret and sadness. She knew that he was right. His desperate attempts to cover his tracks had already seen the arrest of an innocent man. Vernon would eradicate any other potential threat that might cause his web of lies to unravel. He was already in too deep. There was no going back.

  Still sprawled over the bureau, Iris knew she couldn’t make it to the door without him dragging her back, and she knew that nothing she could say would alter what was about to happen. That didn’t stop her mind racing, desperately trying to find a solution. The one thing that would stop him.

  “Please,” She gasped, a simple plea for mercy. As soon as she’d said it, she knew it would be ignored. Of course it would. With most of his body still blocking her escape, Vernon bent towards the fireplace and grabbed a poker. Either he hadn’t heard her plea or was choosing to ignore it.

  “You’re a sweet girl, but I can’t let you go.”

  “I won’t tell,” Iris pleaded again. But this time, she wasn’t saying the words to try to change his mind. This time she was trying to buy herself time, as her eyes searched for something – anything – that could help her. There might have been a letter-opening knife on the bureau, but if there was, it was buried under all the paperwork behind her. On the armchair were Vernon’s spectacles, the newspaper. Nothing to help her. The poker was the only ‘weapon’ by the fireplace and Vernon had that. There were bottles on the sideboard, but Iris couldn’t make it to the drinks cabinet without Vernon getting in the first blow. He would beat her to the floor before she got there. What could she do? She had to do something. Vernon moved slowly forward, the poker in his hand.

  Then she saw it; something that might just help her.

  The telephone was upturned on the floor, the receiver knocked from its cradle. The fuzzy, muffled voice on the other end of the line: “Hello, what number do you require?”

  Vernon saw it at the same time as Iris. The colour drained from his face. The operator might have heard everything: the confession, the threats. Vernon knew he was a doomed man. Iris used that moment of distraction to leap forward, pushing Vernon back against the fireplace. She sprinted for the door as Vernon collapsed into the dying fire, ash pluming into the air behind him. He struggled to get free, but then moved with surprising speed after the young girl, the poker in his hand.

  Iris burst into the courtyard of Shallow Brook Farm and ran and ran. She could hear Vernon shouting behind her.

  “I’ll get you, Iris!”

  And then, as she pressed ahead and he lagged behind, she heard his final words on the subject.

  “I will come for you, Iris. Mark my words!”

  She didn’t look back. She didn’t dare turn, in case Vernon’s malevolent eyes were somehow right behind her, the poker raised in his hand. Iris never looked back. She kept running and running.

  But after that dreadful day, everything seemed to slowly return to normal. A happy ending of sorts emerged from those awful events. With the operator corroboratin
g Iris’s account to the police, Frank Tucker was soon released from custody. Vernon’s words had acted as a confession. As Iris collected Frank from the police station, she took him back to Pasture Farm, where the girls had made a garland and a rabbit stew to welcome him back. They all got tipsy on Finch’s carrot whisky that night, with Frank more taciturn than usual as he listened to the celebrations and laughter around him. Several times, Iris asked if he was all right. Was he tired from his ordeal? But Frank just smiled and said he was fine. Iris suspected that secretly he was in shock, counting his blessings for a narrow escape from the gallows.

  “Who’s for another bottle?” Esther asked, her cheeks flushed red, as if a child had applied her blusher.

  “Here, steady on,” Finch grumbled. “There’s a war on.”

  “Don’t be such a tight wad,” Connie shrieked, opening a cupboard under the sink. She moved some pots and a metal funnel and produced a fresh bottle of carrot whisky.

  “How did you know where I kept it?” Finch said, alarmed. Connie tapped the side of her nose.

  The bottle was cracked open and the girls drank a new toast. Iris felt her own cheeks warming and then noticed that Martin was looking at her, holding his gaze just a moment too long. When she turned, he smiled with embarrassment. He was nearly 17, one year her junior, and filling out to be a fine young man, boyish freckles retreating on his face as he reached adulthood. Iris liked him. He was gentle and funny. He raised his glass in a silent toast to her across the table. Iris went to raise her glass of cordial, but the moment was broken when Esther turned and clipped him around the ear. He was her son, and as far as Esther was concerned, still her baby boy.

  “How many of those have you had?”

  “Four.” Martin shrugged.

  “Four?” Esther scowled. “Well, that’s the last one.”

  “If I’d had four, I wouldn’t be able to feel my legs.” Joyce laughed.

  The Land Girls raised their glasses again. Amid the warmth and laughter, the stone-cold-sober Iris found herself thinking about Vernon Storey. The man who had murdered his own son and who had tried to make another man hang for it. The man who had tried to kill her. How could people do such things?