‘On behalf of everyone here at Holden Manor I would like to say thank you for all the work you have done so far and for the work you are about to do. You have answered the call, recognizing that your country needs you as much as it needs the boys and the men, and I’m sure everyone is proud of your attitude and grateful for your contribution. You truly are an asset and you will be helping to feed the nation and keep the country going. I don’t know if you realize it, but as the sea blockades are tightening, so your work becomes more and more essential. I see you as being the equivalent of the gallant sailors on our Royal Navy ships who are battling it out right now in the Atlantic. Thank you.’
Vera couldn’t help beaming at the lady of the manor and was gratified when her ladyship beamed back.
‘I hope you will have a happy stay here,’ Lady Edgefield concluded and with that she withdrew, the dogs suddenly stirring and trotting off dutifully behind her.
The girls began to move away and Vera had a sudden urge to stroke the dogs’ heads. But before she could reach them they had disappeared from view.
The girls assembled in the kitchen, waiting for Ken Abbott to allocate their duties, but before he appeared they heard the jangle of keys and Mrs Temple announced that she had something further to say.
‘Her ladyship has asked me to remind you about the places that are out of bounds. It’s all there.’ And she pointed to one of the cupboard doors where a large hand-drawn map had been pinned next to the poster listing the house rules. ‘The other thing is to make clear about the “other guests” her ladyship referred to. Firstly, there’s a whole squadron of airmen in the west wing of the house.’ She pointed to the map. ‘I don’t know if any of you have come across them yet?’
Jenny rubbed her hands together and her face lit up. ‘Ooh, that should be interesting,’ she said.
‘No, it won’t,’ Margaret said, pointing to the poster on the door. ‘It says here it’s completely out of bounds. Strictly no fraternizing.’
‘What does that mean?’ Vera whispered to Lily.
‘It means steer clear of them,’ Lily whispered back, though she couldn’t suppress a giggle.
‘Then there’s the bit of the house that used to be called the Summer Wing.’ Mrs Temple was speaking again and she pointed to the opposite side of the map. ‘Before the war, the Edgefields were well-known for their generous weekend parties and that was where their real guests used to stay.’
Vera frowned. ‘So what kind of guests does it have now if they’re not real?’
Jenny giggled. ‘I’d say not very welcome ones as it didn’t look very inviting when I saw it yesterday. It was covered in barbed wire and looked more like a prison.’ She got up from the table and went to peer through the kitchen window at the building in question on the other side of the courtyard.
‘That’s because it is a prison, of sorts,’ Mrs Temple said. ‘It’s where the Italian POWs live.’
There was a collective gasp.
‘You mean there are actually prisoners of war living there?’ Jenny said.
Mrs Temple nodded.
‘But they’re within touching distance!’ Jenny sounded incredulous.
‘That’s the point. Hence the rule, Absolutely No Trespassing!’ Mrs Temple said firmly.
‘But if they’re prisoners …?’ Vera started to say. She looked very uncertain.
‘You don’t have to worry,’ Mrs Temple hastily assured her. ‘They are definitely not the dangerous kind of prisoners and it’s extremely unlikely that any of them will ever try to escape. It’s a lot safer for them to be here than on the battlefield, and they know which side their bread is buttered. But that’s why the rule is for us to keep well away from the entire Summer Wing which is where they’re living. Regard it as out of bounds, as is the rest of the big house.
‘Anyway, it’s all here so you can come and look for yourself,’ Mrs Temple said, pointing to the poster. ‘The only time you might get special permission to enter the house will be if you want to use the library. Or, of course, if there is a social event, although there hasn’t been any of those for a while.’
‘I can’t see that I’ll have much time to read many books while I’m here,’ Lily sniggered.
‘Oh, you never know when you might want to have an excuse to visit the house,’ Jenny said. She had a mischievous tone to her voice and Lily peered at her.
‘In that case,’ Mrs Temple said brusquely, ‘you’d have to go and ask Lady Edgefield yourself.’
‘What about the work roster?’ Vera suddenly asked. ‘When’s this Mr Abbott coming to talk to us?’
At that moment a gust of wind blew through the kitchen as the courtyard door opened and a man came in, grabbing the cap from his head as he did so and releasing long, straggling locks of hair. He was in his thirties, Lily estimated, his chin thick with a sharp gingery stubble though the abundance of hair on his head was dull blond. His woollen jacket seemed too flimsy to protect him from the elements though his ruddy cheeks looked warm enough, but from the thick mud that coated his green wellington boots it seemed as if he had spent the morning so far tilling the fields behind a horse-drawn plough.
He introduced himself as Ken Abbott, the farm manager, and he was carrying what looked like a roster for the day’s work. Tasks seemed to have been allocated in much the same random way as they had been at the training centre and he pinned the list on the cupboard door so that the girls could check off their names. There was no doubt Holden Manor was a busy working farm and that there was much to be done in order to keep it running smoothly and efficiently; from the jobs listed it seemed as if all of the girls would be involved in hard work for long hours of the day.
Vera was pleased at first to see she was on what was called Maintenance Detail, until Margaret explained that it probably involved mostly cleaning and mucking-out duties, but then she discovered that it also included feeding and watering most of the animals as well, a task she looked forward to because it was one she knew she would really enjoy.
The list of individual instructions Mr Abbott had given her directed Vera to begin with the small animals that were kept on the far side of the fenced-off Summer Wing in what was labelled on the map as the old tennis courts. She passed through what had once been the prized rose gardens and the famous dahlia beds which had now been turned over to huge patches of vegetables. As she skirted around the barbed-wire fencing that enclosed the buildings she had been warned were out of bounds, she felt her heart suddenly begin to pound, even though she told herself she was being silly. Hadn’t they been assured that no one would jump out at them? The men inside the compound were soldiers who had been unfortunate enough to be caught by the enemy. How dangerous could such prisoners of war really be? And, scared as she was, she was also curious and she wondered if she dared sneak a peek as she slipped behind the prison that was in the heart of the manor’s extensive grounds.
But all she saw when she plucked up the courage to glance in that direction was a row of arched windows with leaded panes that threw a great deal of light into a large room. There were a number of men milling about inside, but she could see no faces or any other details.
Vera had no idea if they were handcuffed or restrained in any way and she wondered if they were ever let out on their own. She pressed closer to the windows, her breath coming faster, but then a loud noise behind made her jump away and she almost fell into the tangled shrubs that shrouded the barbed wire. Somehow she managed to hang on to the pails of feed she had brought with her and, with them clanging, she ran the final few yards to her intended destination – the tennis court.
The wired netting that still surrounded the old court was held together by a padlocked gate. She could see that inside the chickens were strutting and squawking as they vainly pecked at the old cracked surface, furiously searching for grain among the clumps of broken tarmac. As she pushed her key in the lock, she had a sudden sense that someone was watching her and she glanced over her shoulder, but she could see no one. S
he slipped the lock back onto the bar as she entered, remembering the ‘never leave gates open,’ first rule of farming that had been instilled into them at the training centre.
As she entered the courts, she noticed that the markings on the crumbling tarmac had long gone, together with the net that must have once stretched across the centre of the playing area. She managed to fill her empty bucket with water from the standpipe in the corner and tipped most of the contents into a nearby trough for the hens. Then she cautiously began to scatter the seed and grain that she had brought with her, as she had seen others do back on the farm. But as she did so, she still had the feeling that she was not alone and, like a game of ‘What time is it, Mr Wolf?’, she kept looking over her shoulder trying to catch the culprit creeping up on her unawares. However, she could still see no one as she made her way to the hutches at the far end of the court that she’d been told housed the rabbits. She topped up their little water troughs and replaced the old leaves and root tops with new crunchy vegetables and went hurriedly in search of the morning’s clutch of fresh eggs.
As she carefully reset the padlock in place, she realized her legs were trembling and she took a few moments to look about her to calm down. There was still no one to be seen and she took a few deep breaths then ran all the way back to the kitchen, praying that she wouldn’t drop any of her precious charges.
She deposited the eggs in the ceramic container on the marble countertop and replaced the rooster-shaped lid that looked as though it was trying to hatch the contents. Almost immediately a man came pounding into the kitchen behind her. He seemed to have been running, even though he dragged one of his legs stiffly. As the door shut behind him, she could hear that he was breathing hard.
‘I’m looking for someone called Vera,’ he said gruffly and, as he pulled off his cap, Vera recognized Ken Abbott the farm manager.
‘That’s me …’ she said hesitantly.
His bushy eyebrows, even more gingery than the roots of his beard, drew together as his eyes clouded and his face took on a thunderous look. ‘Then what the hell are you doing in here when you should be down at the stables?’ he said.
Vera looked at him blankly. He strode over to where the roster had been pinned onto the cupboard door and ripping it down he thrust it at her. ‘What’s this then? Can’t you read? Not much point in having a timetable if you can’t stick to it.’ He raised his voice several notches and Vera wanted to crawl away into a corner and hide her face. ‘Them horses should have been mucked out ages ago. And what about the byres, have you cleaned them yet?’
‘No … I didn’t know … I’ve been feeding …’
‘Never mind that now.’ He was actually shouting as Vera was trying to find her name on the roster to prove him wrong. But she could now see that she hadn’t realized that Vera Sharples actually appeared in more than one place.
‘You needn’t waste my time with useless excuses, you’d best get over there now and get on with it,’ he snapped, his voice still sounding angry. ‘I can tell you them horses is not happy and I’m in need of one of them for the thresher.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I had to—’
‘Get that horse harnessed and fit for use, girl. The threshers need it now not tomorrow or the next day.’ He shook his head and then rammed his hat down over his abundant hair. ‘I don’t know,’ he shook his head, ‘wandering about like tomorrow will do.’ And he held the door open so that Vera had no choice but to head directly across to the stables, aware that Mr Abbott was following her.
Everything took much longer than she had imagined, because Holden Manor farm was very much bigger than the farm at the training centre; by the time Vera had mucked out the stables and cleaned the byres, it was time for her to check on the chickens and the other small animals again, and she retraced her steps to the old tennis court as quickly as she could. She was concentrating so hard on avoiding the barbed wire that she didn’t notice the two Collie dogs that had followed her from the stables until they actually came nuzzling about her legs. She jumped in fright, then stood still for a moment, wondering if it would be all right to touch them. But they looked at her soulfully and let out a high-pitched whine so that she felt she had to bend down to stroke them and utter soothing words. They seemed to like this and only wanted to lick her hand as she crouched down to their level. She didn’t know who they belonged to and she was afraid of being too friendly towards them; however, as their behaviour didn’t seem to be threatening, neither did she want to shoo them away. It was pleasant to be able to talk to creatures who couldn’t shout or answer back, if only for a short while.
Vera had always wanted a dog when she had been a little girl but there was no chance that her mother would ever entertain the idea. ‘Filthy beasts!’ Ena always curled her lip as she said it. ‘They need house training; they’re worse than babies.’ Besides which they were an added household expense that she felt the Sharples’ family didn’t need.
Vera had once been followed home by a brown and white bundle with long, silky ears that she longed to keep but her mother had made her take it down to the animal shelter in the centre of Weatherfield in case someone claimed it and Vera had always imagined some lucky little girl being able to adopt it. They had had a cat for a while at the Mission, after Ena was convinced they had mice, but she had made sure it had no babies and when it had died of what she had been at pains to tell Vera were natural causes, it had never been replaced. But Vera was on her own now and it felt good being able to chat to the dogs as she carried out her duties.
Suddenly Vera became aware of an extremely high-pitched whistle and she couldn’t fail to notice how the dogs’ ears pricked up almost immediately. Both dogs crouched low as if preparing to pounce and, with a sudden spring forwards, they shot off in the direction of the fields that were home to the Holden Manor sheep. She was imagining the dogs rounding up the sheep and hadn’t realized she had come close to the POW wing once more, so she was shocked when a young soldier in a uniform she didn’t recognize stepped out in front of her and she jumped back with a loud gasp. He put his finger to his lips.
‘Please, no scream. I not hurt you. I am good man, I no mean to frighten you.’
Vera stood stock-still, trying not to show her fear.
‘I see you before,’ he said. ‘You look inside window.’ He pointed to where she had indeed crept up to the windows earlier.
Vera looked up at his dark brown eyes and nodded, though she waited until her breathing calmed down before she spoke. ‘I promise I won’t scream,’ she said, ‘though I must admit you did scare me.’
It was almost like being in a film. She’d thought for a moment that she was going to be kidnapped but then she argued in her head that the POWs were not really like dangerous criminals. They were mostly ordinary men like their own British soldiers, with families, who had got caught up in a war and were now thousands of miles from their homes. He won’t hurt me, Vera had kept repeating in her head. And it was true. From the way that he spoke in hesitant, heavily accented but understandable English, he did indeed seem nothing like she imagined a regular prisoner would be.
‘My name is Pietro Esposito,’ he said, holding out his hand. Then he reeled off a long number and fingered two metal tags that were on a thin chain round his neck.
Vera took his hand and shook it tentatively. ‘Vera Sharples,’ she said.
‘I grow grapes, they make wine. I good farmer with fields in Tuscany in Italy.’ He drew the outline of a map of what she guessed was Italy in the palm of his hand and pointed halfway up to where Tuscany was.
‘I long way from home right now,’ he said, and Vera noticed his dark brown eyes looked a bit glassy when he said this. ‘I much miss my family.’
He took one of the empty buckets from Vera’s hand and, as she began scattering the grain, he filled it with water from the standpipe. When he began to pour it into the troughs, Vera was able to look at him properly.
He was not particularly good-looking;
in fact, he looked very ordinary except for his eyes that were very big and very brown and also kind. His hair was thick and wavy and the only frightening feature on his dark face was his eyebrows. There was something about the way they met in the middle, drawing a thick straight line across his forehead, that did make him look a bit scary. Or was it the fact that he looked as though he could do with a shave, like Humphrey Bogart in one of his gangster films?
As he handed back the empty pail she noticed that he wasn’t wearing handcuffs and remarked on it.
‘We Italians, we left free to …’ He searched for the word.
‘Wander?’ Vera supplied.
‘Si, si. To wander, free. When not work. Us Italians, we never wanted to go to war, so authorities know we not run away, but we are locked up at night. And nowhere to run to anyway.’ He smiled and looked ruefully down at his scarred, calloused hands. ‘Italy is a long way.’ He sighed. ‘And I not have to work. Officer,’ he said and he stood to attention as he indicated the insignia on his shoulders. ‘But I like to help. At home, every day I am working in vineyards. So where you go now? I go with you. I help you.’
She indicated the stables.
‘And no guards?’ Vera asked, looking over his shoulder as they walked away from the chickens. There was a solitary British soldier standing watching a team of men who were working in the fields stacking huge bales of hay and she wondered how many prisoners he could see at any one time.
‘Yes, but stay in open, they can see you, nobody care,’ Pietro said. ‘Yesterday I walk into village. I meet people. They speak to me. “How do you do?”’ he said in his best English accent and he pretended to lift a hat from his head and bow as if he were being introduced. ‘They know but they are very nice.’
Wartime on Coronation Street Page 15
