by Jenny Holmes
‘What are you on about?’
Alfie remained convinced that he was on the right track. ‘Come off it, Doreen – Nixon and Moyes were here yesterday, large as life. What did they want?’
‘Don’t ask me.’ Her prevarication earned her a sharp kick in the ribs. ‘All right then – yes, they were here. And yes, I did talk to them.’
She rolled on to her side and tried to stand but he thrust her back with his foot, which he kept pressed against her chest. ‘Let’s not waste time. You’ll tell me what Moyes and Nixon wanted then you’ll nip inside and fetch me some grub. You won’t say a word. Got it?’
She nodded and he lifted his foot, allowing her to scramble to her feet. ‘Cut out the rough stuff, Alfie. I’m on your side, remember.’
His eyes were narrow with mistrust. ‘The only side you’re on is your own.’
Moodily she brushed straw and dust from her trousers. ‘So what? A girl has to look out for number one.’
‘So what did they want?’
‘They asked me if I’d seen you lately. I swore that I hadn’t clapped eyes on you since the day in the pub yard. There, is that good enough?’
He gave the slightest of satisfied nods. ‘And what did they say back?’
Doreen fished in her trouser pocket and drew out the scrap of paper with the telephone number written on it. ‘They told me to keep my eyes peeled and to tell the other girls to do likewise. If any of us sees you, we’re to ring this number.’
‘Give me that.’ He snatched the paper, screwed it into a ball, then threw it to the ground.
She ducked down to retrieve it, gasping out a protest as he stamped on her hand. ‘Please yourself. I know it off by heart anyway.’
‘Leave that alone and listen to me. Straight after you’ve fetched me my grub, you’ll go ahead and call that number. You’re to tell Moyes that you saw me catch a bus earlier today. It pulled up at the village stop; a number fifteen to Northgate.’
‘I won’t be able to do any of that at this rate.’ With her hand still trapped, she spoke through gritted teeth.
He stepped away then pulled her roughly upright. ‘A number fifteen. I was carrying a suitcase.’
‘All right, all right, I’ll do it.’ She would play along for now. Later she would take her time to think everything through.
He swung her towards the door then pushed her into the yard. ‘Bread and cheese, some cold meat. Not a word!’
So she ran to obey, waiting by the kitchen door until she heard the warden wheel a trolley laden with plates and cutlery down the corridor towards the dining hall. Then she darted inside and took whatever she could lay her hands on: bread and cheese as requested, plus a jar of fish paste and half a roast chicken that she found under a glass cover in the larder. She wrapped the chicken in grease-proof paper before stuffing everything into a hessian shopping bag hanging from a hook on the door. She was gone from the kitchen before the warden returned.
She found Alfie where she’d left him: a sorry-looking figure in his crumpled suit, minus his collar and tie, cowering as he held one arm across his ribs. Not such a big cheese after all, she thought as she thrust the bag of food at him. He’s no match for Moyes and Nixon.
Perhaps he spotted the contempt in her eyes. In any case he saw something that made him lash out with the knife concealed in his free hand. The blade flashed towards her and she jumped backwards just in time. That’ll teach her!
‘What was that for?’ Doreen demanded, trembling all over and with her eyes fixed on the knife. Never underestimate the underdog was the lesson she’d just learned.
‘Because!’ he snarled back. He closed the blade of the flick-knife with a sharp click then pocketed it. Hearing voices at the front of the house, he realized it was time to make himself scarce. ‘Don’t let me down,’ he warned before he backed out of the yard then through the gate into the garden.
‘Who was that?’ Brenda asked Doreen as she and Poppy wheeled their bikes into the yard.
‘No one.’
‘That’s funny. I could’ve sworn I heard you talking to someone.’
Doreen shook her head and hid her grazed hand behind her back. ‘That was me singing.’
‘It didn’t sound very tuneful, did it, Pops?’ Brenda wheeled her bike past Doreen into the stable.
‘Tone deaf, that’s me.’ She set off towards the house. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and get changed. Donald’s picking me up at seven o’clock sharp.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘Do you know how they saved Canterbury Cathedral?’ Twelve days before Bill was due to join his regiment, Grace was keen to concentrate on the few positive stories that had been reported in recent weeks. ‘The Dean there gave orders for criss-crossing ladders to be laid across the whole roof so that firemen could run over it and sweep off any incendiaries that scored a direct hit. It said on the News that it worked a treat.’
Bill held her hand as they walked by the side of Kelsey Tarn. What could be more peaceful than to look out over the calm water at the sun setting on the spectacular limestone escarpment? ‘They could do with having the Dean stationed in Bath or half a dozen of our cities that Jerry blitzes on a nightly basis. Someone should tell Mr Churchill as much.’
‘I’m sure he already knows.’ To Grace, this whiff of criticism of the Prime Minister seemed disloyal. ‘In any case, he has to concentrate on Libya and Rommel for the time being.’
‘I can’t argue with that,’ Bill agreed. Looking ahead and reading between the lines, he expected his unit to be among those trained in desert warfare before being shipped out to North Africa, but the less said to Grace about that the better. ‘Changing the subject, I hear that the police have been stopping all buses in and out of Hawkshead, Attercliffe and Burnside, searching for the POWs. They think they might be heading for one of the aerodromes to the north-east of York. That’s too far for them to reach on foot without being spotted.’
‘But that doesn’t make sense. They’d be even more likely to be caught if they tried to catch a bus.’
‘Not if they split up into twos and threes and got out of their uniforms into some sort of mufti. Anyway, it’s a shame all round. Until now the Italians had a good name with farmers up and down the dale.’
‘They were champion to work with,’ Grace agreed. ‘Poor Una still sticks up for them, of course.’
‘She’d have them back like a shot, no doubt.’ From a distance Bill found it hard to sympathize with Una’s predicament, though she was bound to be torn between loyalty to her country and heartbreak. ‘I reckoned she was on a sticky wicket from the start. I told Mum as much when she first got in tow with … what’s his name?’
‘Angelo.’ Grace didn’t want to pursue this subject either. Her real desire was for the two of them to make the most of their remaining precious time together, soaking up the sun’s last rays, watching concentric ripples appear on the still surface of the tarn as fish rose to the surface to catch flies. The rings widened and faded, one after the other, until the sun finally disappeared and it was time to drive home.
‘Shall we call in at Mum’s?’ Bill suggested on the way back.
It was agreed, so he drove into the village and drew up outside his mother’s house. Hand in hand once more, he and Grace walked up the path.
Edith came to the door with a worried look. ‘What’s the matter? Have they caught Alfie Craven?’
‘Not yet, as far as I know.’ Bill gave her a peck on the cheek and stepped inside. ‘The problem is he knows the lie of the land better than most. He could hold out for weeks if necessary.’
Edith drew Grace over the threshold. ‘Give me your hat. Go into the sitting room. Is this to do with the prisoners, then?’
‘Mother, sit yourself down. Nothing is wrong. We thought it would be nice to drop in, that’s all.’
‘It’s not too late, is it?’ Grace suspected that Edith was struggling to appear hospitable as she went to a cabinet and took out a bottle and three
cut-glass sherry glasses. ‘We don’t want to keep you up.’
‘No, it’s lovely to have company.’ Below the polite surface ran a torrent of unexpressed emotions; it was the effort to conceal them that put such a strain on her. Terror was uppermost. It tugged at her and almost swept her away. Terror of Bill going away to war and never coming back, of him facing enemy fire, of bombs scoring a direct hit, of shrapnel tearing into his dear flesh, of his lifeless body lying in the desert sand. Such nightmares surfaced only at night as Edith slipped in and out of sleep. ‘How is Maurice coping with learning the business?’ she asked with ill-concealed strain.
‘Pretty well. It’s quite straightforward and he’s a quick learner.’
Grace tipped her glass and felt the sweet liquid trickle over her tongue then hit the back of her throat with sudden warmth. She and Edith must join forces to support Bill in his decision, she realized. ‘Maurice knows he’ll have you to turn to if something goes wrong.’
‘Oh, I know nothing about tractors.’ Edith’s ladylike disclaimer harked back to the days when Vince had been in charge of all things practical and financial. But she was grateful to Grace nevertheless. ‘Have you heard how Hilda is managing?’
‘She’s coping well, considering.’
‘She’s not letting things slip?’ Edith had been too busy to visit Fieldhead since fresh news about the burglary had broken and she’d had to put in several further requests to County Office for extra funds; she’d had to fill in official forms and make seemingly endless telephone calls to explain events. ‘The girls are being properly looked after?’
‘Yes, according to Joyce there’s no need to worry on that score. You can always rely on Hilda.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ Edith’s memory went back to the early days when young Alfie had been attending the village school. ‘But everyone has a weak spot, Hilda included. I’m afraid Alfie is hers.’
‘What’s your weak spot, Mum?’ Bill said with a wink at Grace. ‘Would it be me, by any chance?’
Edith sipped her sherry then sighed. ‘You say that, son, but I hope I didn’t spoil you when you were little. I always insisted on good manners and being kind to others. You were never rude.’
Grace teased him about this later that night, when they were in bed with only a cool cotton sheet to cover them. ‘I remember you at school. You were the class monitor in the year above. I thought you were the bee’s knees.’
‘But now you know better.’ There was enough daylight to make out her dark grey eyes with their long lashes and fair eyebrows arching elegantly above. He followed the irresistible urge to kiss her lips.
‘No, I still think so.’ She smiled as she pulled away then her face took on a wistful expression. The days and nights were sliding by. Bill would soon be gone. ‘Nothing you do will ever make me change my mind about that.’
Working with pigs had to be the worst job going and Poppy was miserable as Roland set her and Una the task of turning his four beasts and their eighteen piglets out of their ramshackle, tin-roofed sty into a paddock behind Major’s stable. To add insult to injury, it was raining heavily and they were both soaked to the skin.
‘“This little piggy went to market.”’ Una poked one of the fat piglets with a long stick and sent it squealing through puddles after its mother. Others scattered across the yard.
Poppy tried in vain to herd them towards the fenced paddock. One of the sows broke away from the wriggling, squirming group then set off at an absurd gallop down a recently planted field of wheat, her barrel-shaped body rolling from side to side, her sharp trotters digging deep into the soft earth.
‘There goes breakfast for the whole of Burnside,’ Roland commented wryly as Poppy followed Lady Macbeth and he lent Una a hand to usher the remaining three sows into the paddock. Then he took a handful of potato peelings from a bucket stationed by the gate post and scattered them. ‘You watch; this will soon sort them out.’
As predicted, the sows and errant piglets came charging for the food – all except for Poppy’s runaway, who proved to be more interested in digging up roots in a hedge bottom than in rejoining the others.
A stout stick was the answer, Poppy decided. As Lady M grubbed in the ditch, she seized a forked branch lying nearby and gave her backside a sharp poke. The pig ignored her so she jabbed again. ‘Nasty, horrid thing!’ she said out loud as the pig carried on digging without batting an eyelid. ‘Just you wait. From now on I’ll be eating bacon every chance I get!’
‘Here, try this.’ Neville offered her a carrot. He’d appeared seemingly out of nowhere, though in fact he’d been waiting all morning for the opportunity to talk to Poppy alone. From the hayloft window he’d seen her chase after Lady Macbeth and taken a different route down the hill, coming up behind her as Poppy jabbed ineffectively at the muddy sow.
‘Here, nice piggy!’ Suspecting that Neville wanted to corner her for another heart-to-heart, Poppy fended him off by crouching at the edge of the wet ditch to thrust the carrot under the pig’s snout. ‘Ta, Neville. I can manage now.’
But he hung around with a hangdog look, letting the heavy rain fall on to his bare head, watching her slowly tempt the sow up the slippery bank. ‘No one’s come back for their money so far,’ he muttered.
‘Who do you mean?’
‘You know.’
She did, of course, but she wanted to stay out of it. ‘That’s a blessing,’ she said in an off-hand way.
‘Everyone says Alfie daren’t show his face.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ She kept her answer deliberately short.
‘Here, give me that.’ He snatched the carrot then tossed it over his shoulder. In a flash Lady M was out of the ditch and grubbing after it amongst the green wheat. Then Neville seized the stick from Poppy and started to herd the sow up the hill to where his father and Una stood waiting at the gate. Poppy trailed a few steps behind. ‘What I told you about shoving the whole lot on the fire … I hope you haven’t mentioned it to anyone.’
‘For Pete’s sake, Neville!’ She ran to catch up, slipping and sliding as she went. ‘I don’t know why you let me in on it in the first place. It’s got nothing to do with me.’
He gave Lady M’s backside a whack. ‘I’ve got no one else to tell, have I? And I must have got the wrong idea. I thought you cared about what happened to me.’
‘I do,’ she protested.
He stopped to stare at her.
‘But only in a friendly way.’ She felt her face go red and saw how crestfallen he looked as his shoulders slumped and he turned away again. ‘I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. I didn’t mean to.’
‘Friends,’ he mouthed. First Una and now Poppy; this was the second time in quick succession that Neville’s case of calf love had gone unrequited. That was it; he made a resolution to give up on the romantic front from now on.
Poppy watched his head drop forward and the rain drip down his face. The bruises and cuts from Nixon and Moyes’s visit had started to fade at last but still he looked a picture of misery. But what could she do? Neville was too young for her, and anyway he wasn’t her type. However, she was soft-hearted enough to run after him and help shoo the bad-tempered sow towards the gate. ‘I still say if you’re scared those two men will come back and do their worst, go to the police,’ she insisted. ‘Make a clean breast of everything. It’s the only way out.’
By the end of the afternoon the rain had eased and a watery sun shone through the dispersing clouds. Shortly after Poppy and Una had breathed a sigh of relief and set off on their bikes on their homeward journey, they met Elsie and Kathleen on the road into the village then Jean, Joyce and Grace on their way from Winsill Edge. Each swapped stories of the day as they cycled. Kathleen told of Emily Kellett’s kitchen being overrun with rats yet again, while Jean grumbled about being pestered all day long by Horace Turnbull. ‘He had the cheek to tell me I wouldn’t be bad looking if only I had more meat on my bones. I said that it was a shame I couldn’t say the same
about him.’
‘At least it’s stopped raining.’ Joyce came alongside Una, who’d stayed silent and solemn as they’d cycled along.
‘Thank heavens.’ Una murmured her reply. These last two days had been agony for her, wondering every minute of every hour how far Angelo and the other POWs had got and thinking of the endless dangers they might find themselves in.
‘How are you bearing up today?’ Joyce asked quietly. The church steeple was in sight and as they rounded the bend into the main street, she noticed two Land Rovers parked in the pub yard.
‘I’m all right so long as I keep busy,’ Una replied. ‘It’s the evenings and nights that I’ve started to dread.’
At the head of their little group, Grace turned into the yard to have a few words with her father, who stood talking to Squadron Leader Aldridge and an army sergeant.
Cliff called her across. ‘Have you heard the latest? They’ve picked up two of the Eyeties out near Braffield aerodrome.’
Una’s heart missed several beats as she veered off the road into the yard. Joyce and the other girls stopped too.
‘Which ones?’ Grace asked Aldridge, who turned to the sergeant for information.
‘Prisoner numbers 4701 and 3276.’ The British NCO delivered the information in a clipped, no-nonsense voice. He was a chest-out, firm-jawed type with a trim moustache, who wore his stripes with cocky self-importance. ‘They were picked up by three of our RAF boys on a back road a mile from the airfield.’
4701. 3276. Una held her breath and looked to Joyce for help.
Joyce raked through her memory. ‘Ricci and Bianchi, if I remember rightly.’
Aldridge picked up on Una’s reaction. Unlike the other girls, who had greeted the news with smiles of relief and praise for the eagle-eyed RAF men, she’d hung back and looked miserable. ‘The other six will be hard on their heels,’ he promised. ‘My bet is that we’ll have them all back in camp by this time tomorrow.’
