by Jenny Holmes
‘A lot’s changed,’ he cajoled. ‘I’m not the tearaway I once was.’
She nodded slowly. ‘I should hope not.’
‘I’ve been taking stock of what I’ve made of my life so far. It’s true that I’ve got a bit of money put by, but on the downside I haven’t managed to find myself a wife and start a family.’ He passed off this lie without a second thought; Maureen Wilby and the two daughters they’d had together had long been consigned to history.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘No, Mum; when it comes down to it, you’re the only family I’ve got. So I decided it was time to build bridges and here I am.’
‘I can’t say it wasn’t a shock when I found you sitting at the kitchen table.’ Hilda’s heart still raced. She held on to the edge of the table to steady herself. ‘I wasn’t sure if you were still in Yorkshire. For all I knew, you could have taken the King’s shilling and ended up in Egypt or Burma.’
‘Not me. I’m exempted from action because of a dicky ticker. But not to worry, I reckon I’ve got a few more good years left.’
‘What’s wrong with your heart?’ she interrupted.
‘The quack took a listen and said something about a murmur.’
‘Like your father.’ Hilda had never been sure if Willis’s weak heart had played a part in his accident. According to an eyewitness, he’d been working Arnold’s threshing machine and had stopped to tinker with the engine without shutting down the whole apparatus. He seemed to have grown dizzy then somehow fallen backwards into the huge, turning drum where he’d been crushed to death. Alfie had been eleven years old at the time – a significant age for any lad to lose his father. ‘But if they wouldn’t have you in the forces, did they give you a desk job instead?’
‘Yes, something like that. But I found out I wasn’t born to be a pen-pusher. Sitting behind a desk got on my nerves so that’s why I decided to come back to what I know.’
‘So this isn’t just a quick visit?’
‘No, Ma – I’m back for good. Give me the country life any day of the week.’
Hilda wasn’t sure how much of the glib account she believed but she started to work through the implications of her son’s sudden reappearance. ‘So you’re looking for work?’
‘Yes, I want to find a job here on my old stamping ground.’
The idea of him putting aside his tailored suit in favour of dungarees and wellington boots increased Hilda’s scepticism. ‘Even if you do, you can’t live here,’ she pointed out. ‘The hostel is for women only.’
He grinned and slapped the table. ‘Yes – I can see that would set the cat among the pigeons. It’s a pity, though. I ran into Kathleen Hirst on the driveway. She’s an old flame of mine – I wouldn’t have minded rekindling that little romance.’
‘And that’s precisely why we have the women-only rule,’ Hilda said with a return to her usual firmness. ‘Listen to me, Alfie – if you really want to find a job, you might try asking Joe Kellett.’
‘Out at Home Farm?’
‘Yes. You remember their son, Frank?’
‘You mean the lad who wasn’t all there?’
‘Yes. The poor soul was turned out of the house by Joe last winter. He had nowhere to go. Not too long afterwards Grace Kershaw and Bill Mostyn found him frozen to death on Swinsty Moor. Grace and Bill were wed last Saturday, by the way.’
‘Get to the point, Mum.’ Good grief, this is what I dreaded – hearing old names, stale gossip, Ma going on and on. But needs must.
‘It means the Kelletts would be glad of an extra pair of hands. They’re not managing on their own, even with help from the Land Army.’ She paused to observe Alfie’s clean white hands and the soft fleshiness of his face. ‘It’d be hard work, mind you. And not a lot happens out there – it might be too quiet for you.’
He stood up and took his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘Quiet’ was precisely what he’d had in mind – an out-of-the-way place in which to hunker down while some trouble in Northgate had a chance to die down. If he set off now and cut across country, he could just about make Home Farm before nightfall.
‘Thanks for the tip-off, Mum.’ He pecked her on the cheek then headed for the door. ‘Peace and quiet is just what the doctor ordered.’
CHAPTER SIX
Grace woke to the warmth of Bill’s body beside her. For a few moments she wondered where she was then the floral design on the thin cotton curtains came into focus and she gradually got her bearings. She lay next to her husband in the front bedroom of number 4 Church Terrace. The bedclothes were thrown back because of the summer heat and she could see that Bill’s pyjama jacket was unbuttoned, his smooth chest rising and falling while he slept. A lingering shyness made her turn her head away. Then she reminded herself of her new status and stretched out her hand.
He sighed at the touch of her fingertips on his cheek. His eyelids flickered open.
‘Good morning,’ she whispered.
‘Is it?’
The curtains let in the bright sunlight. ‘Yes. We’re in for another scorcher.’
He drew her towards him and she didn’t resist. ‘We don’t have to get up yet, do we?’
‘Not for a while.’ They had time to lie together and revel in the novel sensation of skin against skin, his arm under her neck, her hand resting on his chest. The tick of the bedside clock was the only sound in the room.
Bill pressed his lips against the soft mass of her hair. ‘Do we have to go to work today?’
She moved closer. ‘You know we do. I’m due at Home Farm with Brenda and the new girl, Poppy Gledhill. You have to drive out to Arnold White’s.’
‘But really, do we have to?’ Like Shakespeare’s schoolboy creeping like a snail to school, he felt an overwhelming reluctance to get out of bed, but for altogether different reasons. He kissed her again. ‘I’d far rather stay here with you.’
Grace made a feeble attempt to push him away. ‘Bill Mostyn, you’ll get me into your mother’s bad books if I’m late for work.’
He smiled and showered her with more kisses. Then suddenly, in one swift movement he raised himself and rolled clear of her on to the floor. ‘All right, Mrs Mostyn – you win. What’s for breakfast?’
In spite of her dutiful reminders, it was a wrench to see him slide his feet into his slippers then pad towards the door. She pouted then pulled the sheets to her neck. ‘Toast and jam this morning. No eggs, no bacon.’
Amused by the reversal of roles, he teased her as he walked along the landing. ‘I’m following orders – you were the one who said we had to go to work today.’
He smiled to himself as he went downstairs. ‘Happy’ didn’t cover how he’d felt these last few days. ‘Transported’ was more like it – taken out of one life into another that bore no resemblance to what had gone before. It was still a blur – the two days and nights at River View under Mrs Marion Binns’ vigilant gaze, the days spent walking along the riverside with the wind sweeping across the limestone landscape, the water tumbling between white cliffs, curlews calling overhead. And the nights cocooned in the little attic room, the floorboards creaking, rain on the roof. Grace by his side.
She came down in her cream and pink dressing gown as he cut slices of bread for their toast. The kettle was on the boil, tea leaves ready for the pot.
‘Two pieces for me, please. I’ve a feeling I’ll need to build myself up for the day ahead.’
‘You reckon Joe will keep your nose to the grindstone?’
‘As per usual.’ On the previous day she’d worked her way back into Land Army routine with the relatively easy task of scrubbing out Horace’s hen huts, but today at Home Farm was bound to be tougher. ‘Brenda says Poppy is finding it hard to cope, poor lamb. We’re not sure she’s cut out for farm work.’
‘You two will look after her, I’m sure.’ Tick-tock – the clock on the kitchen mantelpiece, like the one in the bedroom, was relentless. ‘I’d better get cracking. Arnold’s expecting me at hal
f eight and he’s a stickler for good timekeeping.’
With a mouth full of toast, Grace tilted her head to receive his kiss. Bill vanished upstairs and she was left to wash up. She hummed a tune as she ran the tap. The sun streamed in through the kitchen window overlooking the playing field at the back of the Institute. She saw Maurice drive his van into the small yard and open up the door to his workshop. The day had begun.
‘Listen to me, girls – I’ve thought of a good way to cheer Poppy up.’ Late that evening, Brenda drew Una, Joyce and Kathleen together in a corner of the hostel common room that overlooked the driveway at the front of the house. It was lined from floor to ceiling with old volumes on the subjects of history, science and geography from the days when Fieldhead had been a private school. Worn leather armchairs formed a semicircle around the empty fire grate.
Reluctantly Joyce abandoned her book – an absorbing mystery called The Wheel Spins. ‘Oh dear, what are you up to now?’
‘Don’t be like that,’ Brenda protested. ‘You saw what Poppy was like at supper. She’s fagged out.’
‘So are we all after a day at Home Farm.’ Kathleen pointed out what they already knew.
Brenda stuck to her guns. ‘This was different, though. There was one point when Grace and I thought the poor kid was going to burst into tears.’
‘Why – what happened exactly?’ Joyce’s interest was piqued.
‘There’s a new chap working for Joe – well, new to me. Grace remembers him from the old days. It turns out he’s Ma Craven’s long-lost son.’
This news silenced the group and they looked at each other in astonishment.
‘I know; you’re wondering why he never came up in conversation before now. But Grace is adamant that Joe’s new helper is Alfie Craven.’ As Brenda talked, she gave Kathleen a long, hard stare. ‘Ah, I see – this comes as no surprise to you. He’s the chap you had the barney with on Monday night.’
Kathleen was puzzled. ‘His Christian name is Alfie,’ she agreed. ‘But when I knew him he went by the name of Watkins.’
‘Well, he’s one and the same – Alfie Craven, Alfie Watkins – take your pick. We only saw his back view the other night, it’s true. But I could’ve sworn it was the same chap the moment I clapped eyes on him at the Kelletts’ place. And he’s the blighter who upset Poppy.’
‘Why, what did he do?’ Kathleen’s resigned air showed them that she wasn’t surprised at this either.
‘He turned the hosepipe on her and drenched her on purpose then made a big show of fetching a towel to dry her down. She didn’t know where to put herself. Grace had to step in and tell him to keep his hands to himself. Alfie thought the whole thing was one big joke.’
‘So what can we do to cheer Poppy up?’ Una hoped that Brenda’s reply wouldn’t be too outrageous.
Checking that the door was tightly shut, Brenda gathered them round. ‘We can play Cupid,’ she explained gleefully.
‘Who for?’ Una’s uneasiness grew.
‘For Nev and Pops, that’s who. Sorry, Una, you’ve fallen out of favour. Everyone can see it if they stop to think about it – Neville Thomson is sweet on our new girl.’
‘But I don’t think we should …’ Una began and was soon backed up by Joyce.
‘I agree. Pushing Poppy in Neville’s way isn’t one of your better ideas, Brenda. In my opinion we need to give her more time to settle in.’
‘Spoilsports!’ Brenda frowned then turned to Kathleen for support.
‘Don’t look at me.’ Kathleen shook her head then walked to the window. ‘Talk of the devil,’ she muttered as Neville himself pedalled up the drive. His face looked hot, as though he’d cycled hard all the way from Brigg Farm.
‘What’s he want?’ Brenda was the first to rush from the room, ready to find out.
Joyce soon joined her on the front doorstep, with Una and Kathleen hanging back out of sight.
‘Don’t!’ Joyce warned an excited Brenda.
‘Why not? Now’s our chance …’
Neville reached the house and flung his bike to one side. ‘I’ve come to see Una. Is she in?’
‘That’s why not,’ Joyce muttered. It was clear to her, if not to Brenda, that the young lad’s case of calf love for Una was nowhere near cured. ‘Yes, she’s in,’ she told him. ‘Shall I fetch her for you?’
‘There’s no need; I’m here.’ Una stepped forward with an uncomfortable feeling that something unusual was going on. Neville didn’t have the look of a hopeful suitor, more that of a messenger carrying urgent news. Her heart began to beat faster.
‘Una!’ he gasped as he leaped up the steps. Breathless, he grabbed her hand and dragged her forward, almost overbalancing her in the process. ‘It’s Angelo …’
‘Oh no, please!’ I can’t bear it, she thought. There’s been an accident in the shipyard. Sheets of hot metal, circular saws, sparks flying through the air, hazardous high scaffolding with ice-cold seawater far below. The blood rushed from her cheeks and she turned deathly pale.
‘No, it’s not bad news – it’s good,’ Neville insisted. ‘Dad heard it straight from the horse’s mouth. He was over at Penny Lane to drop off a couple of sides of bacon. Squadron Leader Aldridge was the one who let him in on it.’
‘Let him in on what?’ Joyce prompted. She feared Una would fall down in a dead faint if he didn’t tell them quickly.
‘The Italians are coming back,’ he reported triumphantly. ‘To Beckwith Camp. Some time next week. Cross my heart and hope to die!’
It was Poppy’s bad luck to be sent for a third day on the trot to work at Home Farm. It would have been bearable if she’d only been taking orders from Joe, but Alfie Craven had muscled in on the act from day one, making his presence felt at every end and turn.
Lift this, carry that, hose down the dairy – no slacking! The commands were endless, issued in a manner that was a combination of teasing and bullying and seemed reserved especially for her. With Grace and the other girls he was more circumspect and he took care not to do it at all in front of Joe or Emily.
‘I see Alfie’s made himself at home,’ Brenda remarked to Joe as she took a breather before her next task. Morning milking was over and Grace and Poppy were still busy in the dairy, pouring milk from pails into the cooler. The subject of their conversation was clearly visible, dressed in blue overalls and black rubber boots, leaning against the dairy wall. He smoked a cigarette as he watched Bill’s arrival in his tractor repair van.
Joe cleared his throat then spat on the ground. ‘What’s it to you, missy?’
‘Nothing. He didn’t strike me as someone who’d settle down to hard graft, that’s all.’
As if he knew they were talking about him, Alfie stared at them warily through a cloud of blue smoke.
‘An extra pair of hands is all I’m bothered about.’ Joe’s response was typically pragmatic. ‘As long as he does as he’s told, I’m not complaining.’
‘And he billets here with you, does he?’ Brenda’s curiosity about Hilda’s son grew by the hour. Why had he called himself Watkins back in his Millwood days? And what had led him to leave the town and lie low here in the back of beyond?
‘Why not? Frank’s room was going begging. I’ve said as long as Alfie doesn’t make any noise, he’s welcome to board and lodgings. I’ll take it out of his wages, mind.’
Alfie threw down his cigarette then sauntered over to talk to Bill.
‘He’s used to dishing out orders, I’ll say that for him.’ Even Brenda had found it hard to stand up to his pushy ways. It wasn’t so much Alfie’s solid muscle and the low rumble of his voice as the slow certainty of his movements accompanied by a lack of expression in his small, dark eyes. The upper lids were hooded, effectively concealing what lay behind.
‘Not here, he isn’t.’ The old man took exception to the implication. ‘Alfie Craven is well aware that I can send him packing the minute he steps out of line.’
Fed up with the direction of the conversation, th
e curmudgeonly farmer shuffled off to negotiate with Bill. ‘My old Ferguson’s out of action in the cart shed. See if you can patch her up without it costing me a fortune. And Alfie – go back to the dairy and put a rocket under those two girls. Tell them there’s half a dozen other jobs for them to get stuck into as soon as they’re done there.’
So Bill took his box of tools and set about stripping the tractor engine while Alfie sought out Poppy and Grace. He chivvied them sarcastically as they lifted the heavy pails of milk and criticized if there was any spillage from the cooler. Then he decided it was Poppy’s job to heave the heavy metal churns into position while Grace joined Brenda in the yard.
‘I’d better stay here.’ Grace was loath to leave Poppy to his tender mercies. ‘Rolling those full churns to the door for collection takes two of us.’
Alfie stared impassively at her. ‘Please yourself.’ His voice dripped with scorn as he turned on his heel and left.
