Land Girls, The Promise Page 5

  Sleep came quickly. But it wouldn’t last for long.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Was that the swing? Iris started to wake, her befuddled mind reaching and trying to place the noise. Dripping water? No, it was a more solid and insistent tapping than that. Not the swing, not water: then what?

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  As Iris came round, she managed to piece it together and recognise the noise. Someone was tapping the wooden leg at the end of her bed. Tap. Tap.

  She opened a bleary eye, half-wondering how someone had managed to get into her room. Then the horror hit her. The bedroom curtain was billowing and there was glass strewn like discarded diamonds across the floor. How had she not heard the glass breaking? Someone had climbed up and broken in. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t draw breath to make a sound; her lungs were like a wet tea towel that someone had scrunched up. With rising dread, she turned her head towards the source of the tapping. She knew she had to look, but she didn’t want to. She knew what she would see.

  It was no surprise who she saw standing there.

  In the half-light, the glinting, malevolent eyes of a small, gnarled man. Vernon Storey. A man twisted by disappointment, cynicism and unrealised dreams.

  Shaking with fear, Iris pulled herself up in her bed, the sweat of fear dripping down her temples. She stared at Vernon. He’d somehow climbed up and smashed the window. And now he was standing in front of her. He grinned and raised the poker in his hand. She was dimly aware of Finch and Esther downstairs, talking. She tried to scream for help, but all that escaped was a tiny, almost comical, squeak. Clutching the poker, Vernon’s other hand drummed menacingly on the wooden leg of her bed.

  Tap, Tap, Tap.

  “Told you I’d come back for you, Iris Dawson,” he said softly, his yellowing teeth bared like a shark.

  “Please …” Iris murmured, finding breath for a childlike whisper of desperation and hope.

  He shook his head, unwilling to listen to any more entreaties. That’s not why he’d come. There was no interest in discussing the right and wrongs of her betrayal, as he saw it. Or the rights and wrongs of his crime against his son.

  “Time for talking is over, Iris,” he said, moving closer, one step at a time. He knew that she had nowhere to go.

  She could smell the stale sweat on his clothes, see the holes in his ragged pullover and his faded checked shirt as he got closer. His face looked almost apologetic. “Sorry it’s come to this,” he whispered. There seemed genuine regret in his voice, as if he knew he wasn’t just ruining her life but his own too. Circumstances had brought him to this point; circumstances that had meant Iris had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Suddenly, his face changed to one of determination and anger as he knew what he had to do.

  He raised the poker above his head and, in a savage, fluid arc, brought it crashing down towards her.

  Chapter 3

  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.

&
nbsp; “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 s
urprised 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.