by Jenny Holmes
‘See?’ Joyce squeezed Una’s arm. ‘That’s not long to wait, is it?’
Jean butted in with a bull-in-a-china-shop comment of her own. ‘You see, Sergeant, Una takes a special interest in one of the escapees.’
The soldier’s shoulders went back a fraction and he shot Una a suspicious glance. ‘Name?’
‘Never mind,’ Kathleen said, pulling Jean away.
‘Name and number?’ the sergeant insisted.
Una found herself stuttering a reply. ‘Bachetti, number 3840.’
The soldier jerked his head towards Aldridge. ‘That’s the one with TB that I was telling you about.’
TB? Tuberculosis. Una’s head spun.
Again Aldridge saw the effect on her. He drew Una and Joyce towards the entrance to the smithy and explained quietly. ‘I’m afraid it’s true. The army doctor received the result of the test he carried out on Bachetti. He made his diagnosis at the beginning of the week. That’s one reason why it’s so important for us to bring him back.’
Joyce too was shocked. The word ‘tuberculosis’ brought to mind skeletal figures with lesions on their lungs, coughing up blood and dying a lingering death. ‘Angelo needs to go to hospital.’
‘Right away,’ Aldridge confirmed. ‘TB is an infectious disease. He should be in isolation. They’ll have to test all the POWs that Bachetti has been in contact with – it’s likely that others have contracted the illness too.’
‘TB.’ Una was hardly able to whisper the dreaded name. Her heart felt squeezed almost to the point of being unable to breathe. My Angelo. My love.
Aldridge offered what little comfort he could. ‘It’s a wonder what clean air and rest can do to keep it at bay, provided it’s detected in its early stages. And the doctor tells me there’s an antibiotic medication they may be able to give; something new that’s being developed.’
‘That’s good,’ Joyce said cautiously. Her mind stuck on the contagious aspect of the situation. Never mind about poor Angelo, what if he’d passed on the illness to Una?
I didn’t see it coming! I thought he had nothing worse than a cough and an upset stomach. I should have known the moment I saw him!
‘Una!’ Joyce said softly and urgently. ‘Squadron Leader Aldridge is busy. We must let him get on.’
He put a hand on her arm. ‘I truly am sorry.’
She gazed at him with unseeing eyes.
‘Come away, Una,’ Joyce said. ‘Let’s get you home.’
A ride on Old Sloper was the only way to clear Brenda’s head of the anxious thoughts buzzing round and round inside her head. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and now Thursday had dragged by with no letter from Les. Am I banking on it too much? she wondered as she kicked the bike into action. He only arrived in Greenock late on Sunday. I should give him more time to write and tell me how much he’s missing me. Then again, he did promise to write to me as soon as he could.
The real question in Brenda’s mind had been: how much was she missing Les? For the first twenty-four hours she hadn’t been certain, but as time went on and she pictured him in his uniform in his new surroundings, she felt sharp pangs of loss and loneliness. She would be pitching hay or feeding pigs and she would suddenly stop to wonder what Les was doing at that moment. Or else she would lie on her bed in the evening, remembering things that he’d said to her, the way he’d looked when he’d said them. Yes, I miss him, she thought with a sigh as she kicked Sloper into action.
‘Keep a lookout for those Eyeties!’ Doreen called after her as she passed Brenda on the drive. ‘They’ve picked up two of them; did you hear?’
‘Yes, Joyce told me.’ Mention of her friend once more reminded Brenda that she wasn’t the only one to be dashing home after work to see what the postman had brought. Joyce was in the same boat and soon Grace would be too. They were three women in love caught up by wartime events, longing to hear from their men. As for Una and her consumptive Angelo, that was a different kettle of fish.
‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’ Doreen’s voice was almost drowned by the roar of Sloper’s engine.
‘I haven’t a clue!’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Anywhere. It doesn’t matter.’
Just to be out on the open road was the thing, with swallows swooping in and out of Peggy’s barn, the dark bulk of Kelsey Crag on the horizon and eventually a decision to be made over whether to head into the village on the chance of a quiet chinwag with Grace or instead to head over Swinsty Moor and create that feeling of riding along on top of the world. She chose the latter and opened the throttle. There was nothing like soaring over the hills, free as a bird.
Until she met Les’s green sports car speeding towards her with the top down and Donald at the wheel.
He recognized her bike and braked hard. ‘Hello, Brenda. We must stop meeting like this!’
‘Hello, Donald.’ He’d left a gap wide enough for her to ride through and she had every intention of carrying on.
‘Have you heard from our jolly Jack Tar?’ he asked as she eased past.
She stopped short. ‘If you mean Les – no, not yet. Why, have you?’
‘Hettie had a phone call from him … when was it? Tuesday night.’
Brenda felt an unexpected pang of jealousy. ‘And?’
‘He says learning the ropes is tougher than expected but so far he’s still in one piece. Funny, I thought he’d at least let his fiancée know how he’s getting on.’
‘Oh, I expect he’s too busy to write before the weekend.’ Determined not to show Donald that she was disappointed, she steered the bike through the narrow gap. ‘Cheerio and thanks.’
‘For what?’ He twisted round in his seat with a knowing smile.
‘For passing on the news. And say hello to Hettie and your dad for me. Ta-ta!’
On she went, her heart plummeting as she rode into a dip then up a steep, slow hill. She tried to reason with herself. It was true, Les was bound to be kept busy from dawn till dusk. He would want to sit down and write a proper letter, not just dash off a scribbled note. There wouldn’t be much privacy in his crowded billet and there was even a chance that he had written but the letter had been held up in the post. But still Brenda’s heart was sore. Then she grew angry at herself. It’s as I feared; I’ve turned into a different person since I agreed to marry Les, she thought. Someone I never thought I’d be in a million years. I’m not carefree, take-me-as-I-come Brenda Appleby any more. What on earth is happening to me?
She twisted the throttle to increase her speed, oblivious to the fact that Donald had turned his car around in the nearest gateway and was following her. She only caught sight of him in her wing mirror when the village of Attercliffe came into view.
What now? she thought with rising irritation.
He overtook her as she approached a bend. Then he braked and idled down the hill towards Dale End.
‘Idiot!’ she muttered to herself. What’s he playing at?
Donald stuck out his right hand and indicated with a circling motion that he was about to stop in the middle of the road.
There was no alternative; she had to pull up behind him and watch him step out of the car.
He walked breezily towards her in an open-necked striped shirt and dark blue slacks, still with the confident smile. ‘I just had a thought. Since you’re in this neck of the woods, why not drop in at our house for a drink and a chat? Hettie’s at home. She can tell you more about how Les is getting on.’
The old Brenda would have said, ‘No, thanks; I’m enjoying riding Old Sloper too much to stop,’ and would have sailed on. But the new, engaged one found herself saying, ‘Ta very much. I think I will.’
So she and Donald arrived at Dale End and went into the house together, with no sign that anyone else was there.
‘Here, I’ll take your coat and gloves,’ Donald offered, spotting but not commenting on the ring on her left hand as she gave them to him. ‘I’ve always fancied one of these leather jobs,’ he said as he hung the old RAF jacke
t on the hall stand. ‘Come into the sitting room. I’ll get you a drink.’
She followed him into the familiar lounge, hoping to see Hettie out in the garden, tending her roses. There was no one out there and she felt increasingly uneasy as she watched Donald pour her a glass of Dubonnet.
‘See, I remembered your favourite tipple,’ he said with a wink. ‘Sit down anywhere you like and tell me more about yourself, Miss Brenda.’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’ Idiot! she said to herself this time. What have you let yourself in for?
He came and sat with his own drink on the arm of her easy chair. ‘A little bird tells me different.’
‘What do you mean?’ She stood up abruptly and walked towards the French doors.
‘Keep your hair on. I’m only saying I’ve heard plenty of interesting things about you.’
‘Who from?’
‘From Les, for a start.’
The idea of the two brothers discussing her behind her back made her frown. She kept her face turned away from him.
‘He’s biased in your favour, of course. But I can see for myself that you’re never going to bore the pants off a bloke the way some women do.’
Enough! She turned to face him. ‘Where’s Hettie?’ she demanded. ‘You said she’d be here.’
Straddling the chair arm, he swilled whisky around the bottom of his glass. ‘She must have popped out. Never mind, it means we can have a cosy chat.’
Resisting the urge to rush from the room, Brenda raised what she hoped was a sophisticated eyebrow. ‘About what, pray?’
‘About my brother’s sudden rush to the altar.’
‘Les and I are not rushing anywhere.’
‘I must admit, I was surprised. I didn’t think you were his type.’
‘I’m not anybody’s type.’ She put down her glass on a side table and strode angrily towards the door. ‘Now, if you don’t mind …’
He arrived there before her. ‘Whoa! Me and my big mouth. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m pleased for Les. He’s done well for himself.’
‘I have to go. Let me pass, please.’
Donald put his hands up in surrender and stepped to one side. ‘You can’t blame us for being taken aback,’ he said as he followed her across the hall. ‘It’s not just me. Hettie’s another – you could have knocked her down with a feather when she heard the news. And Dad’s the same. When Les told him about the ring, there was an almighty bust-up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Let’s just say my brother packed his bag and went off to Greenock in a huff.’
Brenda pulled on her jacket. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ she demanded. ‘You can’t change what’s happened. Les and I are engaged and that’s that!’
‘I’m only saying.’
‘Well, don’t. And listen to this, Donald White. From now on, keep your distance. Don’t ever try it on with me again, do you hear? I’ve had enough of your snide remarks and nasty, insinuating looks. You ought to be ashamed.’
‘Of what?’ he exclaimed. ‘Of being attracted to my brother’s fiancée? A chap can’t help that, you know.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Brenda opened the door. ‘You’re meant to be going out with Doreen. Think of her, if no one else!’
‘Doreen?’ he repeated with raised eyebrows, leaning casually against the door post and watching her storm off.
‘It’s not funny!’ Brenda glanced over her shoulder in time to see Hettie push past Donald then follow her on to the drive.
‘Your gloves,’ Hettie said, handing them over and speaking with calm deliberation. ‘They were on the hall stand. I couldn’t let you leave without them.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Late on Thursday evening, Doreen was up to her elbows in soap suds in the hostel laundry room. She was keeping a low profile, torn in different directions over the problem concerning Nixon, Moyes and Alfie, which she’d stewed over for two days but still reached no conclusion. Should she bow to Alfie’s threats by telephoning Moyes and dropping in the red herring about the number 15 bus? Or was she more afraid of where that would leave her if Moyes and Nixon discovered the truth? Then again, if she followed Moyes’s orders to the letter and he and Nixon returned for Alfie, their victim might slip through the net and come after her to exact his revenge. Round and round she went in ever decreasing circles.
All over a couple of pairs of nylons, a lace brassiere and a bottle of cheap perfume! She laid the sleeve of her work shirt flat on the draining board and scrubbed hard at a grass stain, as if to take out her frustration. I had no idea what a low-down, dirty rat Alfie Craven would turn out to be. If I’d have known, I wouldn’t have touched his presents with a barge pole.
The stubborn stain refused to shift.
It serves me right. Doreen plunged the shirt into a bowl of clean water then wrung it out over the stone sink before slinging it over a clothes line next to her corduroy trousers and two pairs of socks. If I’d had any common sense, I wouldn’t have got myself into this mess in the first place.
‘That’s it!’ she said out loud as she stood back and surveyed the dripping laundry. ‘I’ve made up my mind.’
She dried her hands then marched along the corridor, straight to the warden’s office. ‘Knock, knock,’ she said through the half-open door.
There was no reply so Doreen stole into the room. She picked up the telephone and, when the operator came on the line, she quietly gave her Moyes’s number and asked to be put through. There was a succession of clicks then Nixon’s voice answered.
‘Who is that?’ he asked, short and not so sweet.
‘Hello, Mr Nixon. Doreen Wells here. I have some news for you about Alfie Craven.’
‘You do? Then spit it out.’
‘He was seen getting on to a number fifteen bus to Northgate.’
‘When?’
‘On Tuesday morning. I only got to hear about it an hour or so ago. That’s why I haven’t been in touch before now.’
‘Who saw him?’
‘I don’t know. But whoever it was can’t have realized Alfie was on the run because word didn’t get round straight away. Oh, and he had his suitcase with him.’
There was a pause while Nixon weighed up the information. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. There’s only one bus a day from Burnside into town. It leaves here at half nine, arriving in Station Street around eleven.’ Pleased with herself for delivering a convincing performance, Doreen waited for Nixon to sign off with a thank-you and a pat on the back.
‘Very good.’
That was it. Then a loud click followed by silence.
When she put down the receiver and turned to leave, Hilda was standing in the doorway.
‘Half past nine on Tuesday morning,’ she repeated slowly and steadily. ‘That’s news to me.’
‘Mrs Craven, you made me jump!’
Hilda didn’t blink. ‘You might have thought to mention it to me before you dialled 999. After all, I am his mother.’
‘999: the police? Oh, yes.’ Doreen felt the situation spin out of control once more. How could she fib her way out of this one? ‘I was meaning to but you weren’t here when I knocked. So I went ahead anyway.’
Hilda didn’t blink. ‘Alfie, with his suitcase?’
‘Yes, so I heard.’
‘Tuesday morning.’ Straight away she realized that this didn’t stack up. As the person in charge of the kitchen as well as every other aspect of life at Fieldhead, Hilda was only too well aware that food had gone missing on Tuesday evening – half a chicken, a loaf of bread, fish paste and some cheese, to be exact. She’d discovered the theft straight after dinner but hadn’t plucked up the courage to make it known. For she knew with sickening certainty that Alfie must be the thief. Deciding to keep quiet, she prayed that this would be the last time that her wastrel son would turn up on her doorstep.
‘Are you certain?’ she asked Doreen, who had backed up against the desk.
‘Quite s
ure.’ She took a deep gulp of air. ‘You can relax; Alfie’s out of your hair. I’ve handed everything over to the police.’
‘Thank you.’ Hilda squashed down her anger as she held open the door. Who was Doreen to take matters into her own hands – worse still, to tell her how to react? And in any case, it made very little sense. On top of the matter of the missing food, a return to his enemies’ stronghold of Northgate was as good as putting his own head in the noose. Alfie of all people knew better than that.
‘You’re not upset with me, I hope?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Good. That’s a relief.’
Hilda’s keen gaze penetrated deep below the surface though her words were bland. ‘Go up and get a good night’s sleep, Doreen. You’re on early morning milking duty at Home Farm tomorrow. You won’t want to be late.’
‘Alfie was spotted getting on a bus.’ Now that the die was cast, Doreen saw no harm in broadcasting the lie. On her way up from the warden’s office, she resolved to cover her tracks by making an anonymous telephone call to the police station first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, she was happy to share the false information with Poppy and Joyce. Why not? I’m a dab hand at this fibbing lark, she told herself as she walked into the room to find them on their beds, wiling away the time until she joined them for lights-out.
When? Why? Who?
She answered their quick-fire questions with airy nonchalance.
‘Good Lord!’ Poppy’s thoughts flew to Neville and the question of whether Alfie’s departure improved or worsened his situation.
Joyce picked up on her reaction. ‘What’s wrong, Pops?’
‘Nothing. I’m flabbergasted, that’s all.’
‘So was Ma Craven when I told her.’ Doreen took her night things out from under her pillow: a pair of mauve silk pyjamas with white piping around collar and cuffs. She was half-undressed when Brenda burst into the room.
‘Donald White is the absolute end!’ she cried, her face white with anger. She hadn’t even taken off her gloves and jacket before running up the stairs two at a time. ‘How can you stand him?’ she accused Doreen. ‘He makes me want to run a mile!’
