by Jenny Holmes
‘Are you listening to a word I say?’ she protested.
With the music gathering speed, he put both arms around her waist and would have kissed her except that she turned the embrace into a dance, putting her arms around his neck then leaning back and starting to move in time to the rhythm. When the record finished, there was the click of the needle in the final groove then an awkward silence.
And so the evening went on – Brenda fending Les off, choosing more records and avoiding the slow tunes, drinking occasionally, talking animatedly as usual – until in the end, he chose a record – ‘The Anniversary Waltz’ by Bing Crosby – then quietly sat her down on the sofa.
‘I still don’t know what to make of us,’ he confessed with an exasperated sigh. ‘I’m certain of how I feel but I need to hear it from you; am I wasting my time?’
‘Like I said before: it’s not you, it’s me,’ she replied, her head a little woozy after three gins. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m in the frame of mind for anything serious.’
Les frowned and looked thoughtful. ‘So I gather. At least, that’s the line you spin to me – and everyone else, for that matter. But it’s not the whole story, is it?’
This time she didn’t break away from his intense gaze. ‘I’m sorry,’ she faltered.
‘Don’t be sorry. Try to explain.’
She gave a stiff shake of her head. ‘I don’t know how to.’
‘Why not? Whatever you say is between you and me. Not another soul will ever find out, I promise.’ He could see confusion in her eyes and likened it to the reaction of a cornered creature in the wild: a fox or a deer, on high alert, working out which way to run.
‘Grace says it’s because of my bad scrape with Mack the Knife – that’s the Canadian I crossed swords with last Christmas. That’s when my guard went up and I haven’t lowered it since.’
‘Bad scrape?’ The frown deepened.
‘Don’t ask,’ Brenda told him, with the singer crooning in the background and the French doors overlooking the garden letting in fresh air and a scent of roses. ‘Let’s just say I came out of it in one piece, if you know what I mean. But it knocked my confidence. I couldn’t help feeling that I’d brought it on myself. And people talked.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Les insisted. He understood for the first time that her lively, sometimes devil-may-care personality hid something deeper and darker. The realization made him want to reach out and protect her but for now he would have to go carefully, one step at a time. ‘But I don’t blame you for holding back; it’s only natural.’
She looked at him quizzically then thanked him.
‘What for?’
‘For giving me some breathing space. I mean it, Les, most men wouldn’t.’
‘I’m not most men.’
No, you’re not. You have a gentle, patient way with you. You like music and I bet you have your head stuck in a book every chance you get. You have nice grey eyes. This last thought brought a smile to her lips.
‘And you’re not most girls.’ He saw the smile and gained courage. ‘The more you tell me, the more I see how true that is. You do what you want to do and you say what you think; I admire you for that. On top of which, you like to have fun but there’s a serious side as well.’
She gave a small nod and felt a light-headedness that was more than a mixture of roses and gin. ‘That’s me to a T,’ she murmured.
Then they did kiss for the first time that evening. His features blurred as he leaned towards her – the grey of his eyes mesmerized her and she responded to the soft touch of his lips. They sank back on to the sofa, closely entwined, both ready to give in to desire. Neither heard the click of the front door above the dying strains of ‘The Anniversary Waltz’.
‘Future years … A few little tears’. The sentimental words drifted out into the hallway.
‘Les, are you there?’ Hettie’s footsteps approached the sitting room.
Les and Brenda sprang apart. Brenda sat up and smoothed her skirt while Les jumped to his feet.
‘There you are!’ Hettie took in the scene – the two empty glasses beside the gin bottle, cushions and clothes in disarray, the hiss of static on the record player. She tilted her head to one side as if demanding an explanation.
‘You’re back early.’ Les glanced at his watch. It was half past eight. ‘I thought you and Dad were playing bridge with the Fosters tonight.’
‘I changed my mind and dropped in on an old friend instead.’ Hettie didn’t blink or budge. Her plum-coloured dress and spinsterish brogues made her seem more of a school ma’am than ever. ‘Hello, Brenda. I noticed your motor bike parked outside.’
Here it came: the judgement that Brenda had come to dread – the stern narrowing of the eyes, the pursing of the lips. Her barrier slammed back into place. ‘I have to be off if I want to get back to the hostel before dark,’ she told Les hastily. ‘Ta for a lovely evening.’
‘You’ll need your jacket,’ Hettie pointed out, stony-faced.
Brenda doubled back to pick it up from the sofa but Les snatched it away. ‘There’s no rush,’ he insisted. ‘Hettie, why not join us for a drink?’
‘No thanks. It seems Brenda has had enough already.’
Her unprovoked rudeness prodded him into action. He slung Brenda’s jacket on to the nearest chair then caught her by the hand. ‘Don’t worry about the time,’ he insisted. ‘I can always drive you home when Donald brings the car back.’
‘No, I don’t want to put you out.’ How can one woman whip the rug from under me with a single stare and a few short words? Stand up for yourself, for goodness’ sake! She looked from Les to Hettie then back again.
‘This is not on, Hettie,’ he protested. ‘I think you should say sorry to Brenda.’
‘What for? For speaking the truth?’
‘What’s it to you, anyway?’ Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, Les paced the room. ‘Why can’t you mind your own damned business?’
‘This is my business.’ Without raising her voice or changing her expression, Hettie kept her gaze firmly on Brenda. ‘She’s playing with your affections – any fool can see that.’
‘Oh!’ Brenda gave an outraged gasp then grabbed her jacket from the chair and made for the door. ‘Get out of my way,’ she told Hettie. ‘I won’t stay where I’m not wanted – I’m off!’
‘No, wait a minute.’ Les came between the two women, pulled his sister into the room then closed the door. ‘You can’t go on doing this, Hettie – poking your nose in where it’s not wanted. Not any more.’
Hettie let out a grunt of disgust. ‘And I suppose you’ve become a sound judge of character all of a sudden? Well, let me tell you a few home truths.’
‘What about, for God’s sake?’
‘About our Land Girl here. I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you but it’s common knowledge that Brenda Appleby plays the field. Her name is mud, from here to Burnside and back!’
Brenda’s eyes blazed with indignation. ‘Believe what you please!’ she shouted. ‘But I’m telling you now, the rumour mongers are the ones who should hang their heads in shame, not me! And you too, Hettie, for believing them.’
With a look of smug satisfaction at having riled Brenda so badly, Hettie murmured under her breath a comment about the lady protesting too much.
‘That’s enough!’ Les stormed. As Brenda tried to push past them both, he stayed her with his arm. ‘Hettie, if you go on like this, I swear I’ll—’
‘You’ll what?’ For the first time, Hettie’s expression showed a flicker of uncertainty.
‘Nothing. I’m telling you to shut your trap. You have to get used to the idea of me taking Brenda out and that’s the end of it.’
‘Taking her out?’ Hettie echoed scornfully. ‘Is that what you call it?’
‘That really is enough!’ Les’s face was red with anger. ‘I’m warning you, Hettie!’
‘Don’t bother, I’m off!’ As the situation spiralled out of control,
Brenda pushed past him and wrenched at the door handle. She was halfway across the hall when Hettie called after her.
‘By the way, has Les told you his latest news?’ She was back to her coolest manner, looking over her shoulder at her brother. ‘No, I see that he hasn’t. Come along, Les, tell Brenda about the letter that dropped on our mat yesterday morning.’
Brenda’s heart lurched. What did Hettie mean? Was it a love missive from a sweetheart that she didn’t know about? No, that was more Donald’s style than Les’s. Was it something to do with the family business of renting out machinery? She froze and waited for his response.
‘A letter in a brown envelope addressed to Mr Leslie White,’ Hettie explained, circling slowly overhead, ready to drop the bombshell. ‘With no stamp on it – just the Royal Crown printed in the top right-hand corner. I knew what it was the moment I saw it.’
Brenda knew too, from the careful description. She jutted out her chin then marched on towards the door.
‘It was his call-up papers,’ Hettie confirmed. ‘Les is to join the Royal Navy and there’ll be no getting out of it. They say Donald can carry on here as normal but Les has no choice but to join the fight for King and Country.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘Aren’t you coming to church?’ Jean asked Doreen early the next day. She’d made an effort to spruce herself up in a royal-blue dress with a gored skirt and white piping around the neckline. She’d even waved her straight dark hair and pinned it up on top of her head. Now she was about to set off on her bike with Kathleen, Poppy and Una, who were also in Sunday best for the morning service.
Doreen sat on the front doorstep of the hostel, quietly smoking a cigarette. She was still in her dressing gown and slippers, with her face scrubbed bare of make-up and her hair uncombed. ‘No, I’ll give it a miss today,’ she answered nonchalantly.
Brenda brushed past her from behind and took the steps two at a time. ‘You’ll have Ma Craven after you,’ she warned. ‘She likes us to show our faces at St Mike’s at least every other week.’
Joyce followed at a more sedate pace, saying nothing as she joined the others.
‘I’ll think up a good excuse, don’t you worry.’ It was a mystery to Doreen why everyone at Fieldhead was so keen to toe the line. Doreen certainly had better things to do with her day off than to warble a few hymns and parrot the Lord’s Prayer.
So she watched the girls cycle off then went inside to revel in having time to herself. She pottered in the kitchen, making a hot chocolate and opening every tin until she came across a couple of broken rich teas. After that, she wandered out into the walled garden to see if the cherries were ripe then back into the house to flick through some weeklies in the common room. The Land Girl magazine, with its patriotic guff, knitting patterns and recipes, held no interest, however, and she objected to the musty smell of old books and furniture polish.
Time to get dressed, she thought with an idle sigh.
She’d reached the first landing when she heard her name.
‘Doreen Wells – if it isn’t my favourite Land Girl!’ Alfie’s muffled but unmistakable voice called.
Doreen leaned over the banister but the visitor was evidently lurking in the corridor leading to the kitchen. ‘Alfie, is that you?’
‘Who else?’ He emerged into the hallway wearing the suit and trilby hat he’d first arrived in, walking with a limp and keeping his hat pulled forward.
She drifted down to meet him. ‘Your mother’s not in. She set off for church half an hour ago …’ She let her words tail off into silence as she noticed a deep cut about two inches long on Alfie’s cheek. ‘Blimey, what happened to you?’ she said after she recovered from her shock.
‘If you think this looks bad, you should see young Neville,’ Alfie quipped. ‘They laid into him good and proper.’
‘Who’s “they”?’ In fact, Alfie looked shocking. There was a bandage around his right hand and bruises on his left knuckles, besides a host of other hidden injuries, she shouldn’t wonder.
‘Never you mind. Let’s just say I was ready for them and young Neville wasn’t, worse luck.’
Mindful of the tittle-tattle about Alfie’s criminal past that she’d picked up from Kathleen, Doreen walked full circle around him. ‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with those two spivs in the Morris Oxford, by any chance?’ If so, she was confused – Alfie’s injuries seemed to have been inflicted more recently than that.
Alfie laughed. ‘“Spivs” – that’s not a very nice name.’
‘They weren’t very nice men,’ Doreen retorted. ‘Anyone could see that.’ She remembered the tension in the air in the pub yard and the way one of the men had slammed the car boot shut to prevent her from seeing inside. ‘And you couldn’t wait to see the back of them, if I’m not mistaken.’
She was a smart cookie so there was no point in hiding the truth. ‘Let’s say that Howard, Clive and I had a small falling-out over a business proposition.’ To be specific, Alfie had conned Clive Nixon and Howard Moyes out of a considerable sum of money – hence their persistence in tracking him down. ‘Two against one – that’s the only reason I came off worst.’
She circled him again. He was unshaven and the gash on his face was deep but clean – made with a sharp blade. It should have had stitches but Alfie had obviously chosen not to go to hospital. ‘How does Neville Thomson come into it?’
‘That’d be telling.’
‘At least he’ll think twice about getting involved in your shady dealings from now on.’ Did this mean there would be an end to her supply of stockings, lacy underwear and chocolate? she wondered.
‘Neville will do as he’s told,’ Alfie contradicted sullenly before changing the subject. ‘You say Ma’s at church?’
‘As per usual. She won’t be back before dinner time.’
‘Is there anything to eat in the kitchen?’ He limped down the corridor and she followed. ‘Emily Kellett is starving me to death. I’ve had cheese on toast three nights in a row, with a poached egg if I’m lucky.’
Doreen overtook him and went to the stove to lift the lid off a pot of stew. ‘Boiled beef and onions in gravy with a few carrots and spuds chucked in. I can heat some up for you.’
He nodded then eased himself into a chair, admiring Doreen’s back view as she turned on the gas, poured some stew into a small pan then set a place for him at the table.
‘Never say I don’t make an effort,’ she said after she’d placed a steaming plate in front of him. But this was as much as she was prepared to do for the unexpected visitor so she made her excuses. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I have to go and slap some cold cream on my face and put some curlers in my hair.’
Alfie wolfed down the stew and was finished almost before Doreen had reached her room. She doesn’t look up-to-much without her war paint, he mused cynically. But you can’t pull the wool over her eyes, I’ll give her that.
His attention was neither fully on Doreen and the meal in front of him nor on the whereabouts of his mother, because he’d come to Fieldhead for a different reason entirely. Leaving the empty plate on the table, he scraped back his chair then limped off down the corridor and into the hallway, where he paused to recall which of the doors led to the office. He tried the common room then the door next to it, which opened up on to a small room with a telephone, a bookcase containing grey marbled box-folders and a desk covered in brown oilcloth. There was a blackout blind at the window and an electric light with a green metal shade hanging from an ornate ceiling rose in the centre of the ceiling. Bingo!
He approached the desk and pulled open the drawers, disturbing papers, a stapler and a hole-punch in one and a cardboard box containing paper clips and drawing pins in another. ‘But no tin for petty cash,’ he muttered out loud. He glanced at the window sill – a daft place to keep money, he knew. What about the bookcase? He drew a blank there too. So he went back to the desk and wrenched the drawers open to their full extent. There, hiding behind the box of p
aper clips, was the very thing he was looking for.
He took out the locked metal box and shook it. There was plenty of loose change inside and he could hear the rustle of banknotes too. But there was no key to the tin – again, even his mother wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave that lying around. The answer was to take the whole thing with him, prise it open once he got back to Home Farm, then count out its contents. He needed twenty quid at the very least.
Alfie slammed the drawers shut and tucked the box under his arm. For a few seconds he visualized his mother’s reaction when she discovered the theft. She would soon realize that only Doreen had been in the house when the money was taken. An innocent girl would stand accused and would snitch on him, no doubt. Or would she? Surely Doreen knew a good thing when she saw it in the shape of nylons, perfume and lipstick. And if she was as smart as he supposed, she’d straight away see the downside of turning him over to the police.
Anyway, what did he care? He would deny it, swear that he’d never set foot in the place. How could he, hampered as he was by the cuts and bruises that had forced him to take to his bed since Thursday? So he limped out of the office with the box rattling encouragingly under his arm, down the kitchen corridor and straight out of the back door to one of the empty stables where he’d stashed Emily Kellett’s old boneshaker of a bike. Then he walked it through the wood at the back of the hostel until he came to a little-used lane, vanishing as quietly as he’d come.
Grace laid the table for tea with care. She was expecting her mother-in-law but was preoccupied by a short conversation she’d had with Una after church that morning. It had been about Angelo, of course. Una and he had arranged a romantic tryst for the previous evening but Angelo had failed to show up.
‘He sent Lorenzo instead,’ Una had explained with a worried expression. ‘It turns out that Angelo’s poorly again.’
‘That cough of his won’t go away?’ Grace had surmised.
‘That’s right. The camp doctor ordered him to stay in bed. Lorenzo told me they had to dose him up with something that would make him sleep, otherwise he’d have disobeyed orders. By all accounts, he only stayed put once Lorenzo had promised to pass on a special message.’
