Wedding Bells for Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  Bill raised both hands to shield his face. He’d got home from work to find places set for tea but no sign of Grace. He’d crossed the road to the smithy and learned from Cliff where Grace had gone. He’d followed her into the wood and discovered Alfie bloody Craven attacking his wife. Knife or no knife, he would charge the bugger, knock his block off, stamp on him until he was dead.

  ‘Oh no you don’t!’ Alfie lashed out again as Bill launched himself. The blade met solid flesh but even as Alfie pulled the knife out, Bill kept on coming, taller and stronger than him and with no thought for his own safety, only for Grace and what Alfie had put her through. He overpowered him and wrestled him down to the ground, grasping for the knife.

  Grace saw that Bill was bleeding. A dark patch appeared high on his chest and spread rapidly, staining his white shirt crimson.

  ‘Drop it!’ He grasped Alfie’s wrist and banged his hand against a rock. ‘Drop the knife.’

  Alfie resisted. He too saw the blood.

  ‘Alfie – Bill, please!’ How had it come to this? What should she do?

  Alfie felt Bill’s grip weaken. He disentangled himself then rolled, knife still in his hand. Bill made a desperate lunge to catch hold of his leg. Then Grace was between them, down on her knees, pulling them apart. Bill gave a long, loud gasp and sank against her. Alfie broke free.

  ‘What now?’ She cradled Bill’s head and looked up to challenge their attacker. ‘Do you intend to kill us both?’

  ‘Quiet!’ Back on his feet, Alfie tried to assemble his thoughts.

  ‘It’s either that or run.’ Bill’s wound was wide and deep; Grace needed to stop the bleeding with anything that came to hand. So she tore off the scarf she’d been wearing around her head and pressed it hard against his chest. ‘Run, Alfie, while you have the chance!’

  Whatever fix he was in, he didn’t want two dead bodies on his hands. Where would he hide them, for a start? The notion of burying them here in the wood struck even Alfie as absurd. He stared at the knife then down at Grace and Bill.

  ‘Quickly – go!’ Her hands were covered in Bill’s blood. ‘Stay awake,’ she pleaded with Bill, as his eyelids started to flicker and close.

  He heard her and tried to speak. ‘Grace …’

  ‘Grace?’ A voice shouted from the stile at the edge of the field. It was her father, on his way to find them.

  ‘Grace, where are you?’ Cliff called from the birch trees that fringed the wood. ‘Did Bill find you?’

  ‘Dad! Dad’s coming,’ she whispered to Bill. ‘We’ll get you to hospital.’

  His eyes closed again.

  ‘Here!’ she called out strongly. ‘Dad, we’re over here!’

  Alfie heard bushes being pushed aside and a heavy tread approaching. With a last glance at Bill sinking into unconsciousness and at Grace holding him in her arms, he flicked the knife shut and melted away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ‘It’s not like Grace to miss work.’

  Joyce and Poppy had arrived at Brigg Farm to discover that Grace wouldn’t be joining them as planned. Joyce made the comment to Roland as they leaned their bikes against the hayloft steps then turned to him for further information.

  ‘She was listed on the rota,’ Poppy told the out-of-sorts farmer. ‘Isn’t she feeling well?’

  ‘It’s not her, it’s Bill.’ Roland had caught up on events the previous night, when he and Neville had called in at the pub and found Cliff manning the bar. The place had been unusually quiet for a Friday night: no Land Girls, no Canadians, only the old-timers from the village and surrounding farms. The atmosphere had struck him as odd the minute they’d walked in.

  ‘Where’s your lass?’ he’d asked as his pint was pulled.

  ‘At the hospital.’ Cliff had offered no further explanation.

  Maurice, standing nearby, had been the one to enlighten Roland. ‘Haven’t you heard? Bill Mostyn’s at death’s door. Alfie Craven stuck a knife into him in the woods at the back of here. From what they say, he’s hanging on by a thread.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  If the news had sent shock waves through Roland, the effect on Neville had been as if his world had come to a sudden, catastrophic end. His face had turned ashen and he’d gone weak at the knees. Maurice had only just placed a stool under him before his legs had turned to jelly and he’d slumped against the bar.

  Maurice had relished his role as imparter of dramatic news. ‘Cliff here called the ambulance, didn’t you, Cliff? By the time it arrived, everyone in the village had heard what Alfie had done. Edith and Grace went off in the ambulance with Bill. A few of us went searching for the lunatic before it got dark, but no luck.’

  ‘So that’s where Grace is,’ Roland reported to Poppy and Joyce now. ‘At Bill’s bedside. You two girls will have to do the work of three. You can start by harnessing Major and taking the wagon down to Low Field. Those last hayricks need bringing in before the skies open and it pours down.’

  It was hard to concentrate on the task but they did their best to knuckle down. Poppy led the shire horse out of his stable then held him steady while Joyce put on his tack. The most difficult part was making Major stay in position long enough to hitch him up to the cart. He obviously had his own ideas for the morning, which didn’t include pulling heavy hay loads up a steep hill, so he stamped his feet and tossed his huge head, refusing to stand still while Poppy and Joyce tackled the job in hand.

  ‘Where’s Neville this morning?’ Joyce grumbled while Roland stood by and smoked his pipe.

  ‘Don’t ask me. I heard him tossing and turning all night long but when I went to turf him out of bed at half past six, he was already up and gone.’

  ‘We could have done with him here to lend us a hand.’ Joyce swerved a swift kick from an irritable Major. ‘Stand still, you brute!’

  Where can Neville have gone at that hour? Poppy’s mouth went dry but she said nothing.

  ‘Hold the reins tighter; keep Major’s head steady.’ Roland took the pipe out just long enough to instruct her. ‘Don’t let him get the better of you.’

  At last the horse was hitched and Joyce could climb up on to the driving seat. Roland went to tend his pigs while Poppy hopped up on to the cart and, with a flick of the long whip, Joyce drove out of the yard, down the green lane to the bottom field, where they rolled up their sleeves and began to fork hay on to the wagon. They’d almost transferred the first of the two remaining ricks when Poppy had to stop to lean on her fork and catch her breath.

  ‘I’m bothered about Neville,’ she confessed once she’d rested.

  Joyce glanced up at a bank of clouds hovering low over their heads. ‘Personally, I’m more worried about Bill. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course. It’s awful. But he’s in good hands.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ Joyce imagined what Grace must be enduring. ‘I try not to think too far ahead, just in case.’

  Poppy took her point. ‘Yes. Poor Grace.’

  ‘And poor Mrs Mostyn.’ Taking care to steer clear of Major’s clodhoppers, Joyce took up her pitchfork and began to toss more hay on to the wagon. ‘Poor everyone, for that matter.’

  They fell silent and worked on. Despite sharing Joyce’s worry over Bill and his family, Poppy couldn’t rid her mind of the picture of Alfie Craven still on the loose, creeping along hedgerows, hiding in barns, attacking Bill with his knife. Neville must be frightened out of his wits, she thought. That’s why he’s made himself scarce – in case Alfie shows up here again.

  Joyce hoisted the last forkful of hay high into the muggy air then dumped it on top of the pile. One more rick to go; she and Poppy had best get a move on if they wanted to get all Roland’s hay safely into the loft before it rained. ‘Once we’re finished here, I’ll go back to the village and make a telephone call,’ she told Poppy.

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘Edgar.’ Although only too well aware that he already had plenty on his plate, on balance she felt he should hear about the late
st trouble. ‘He is Bill’s brother-in-law, after all.’

  Edgar’s world as a fighter pilot had everything to do with duty rosters and dicing with death, with propellers and crankshafts, bomb loads and moving targets on radar screens. It had nothing to do with affairs of the heart. So when his gunner, Tommy Wright, sauntered into the common room soon after midday, Edgar looked up from the map spread out before him, expecting to learn details of their upcoming raid.

  ‘Where are we headed next, Tommy lad? Is it Dresden; or Essen for a change?’

  ‘Neither. Guess again.’ They spoke casually, as if choosing between venues for a Saturday night out.

  ‘Not Hamburg?’

  ‘No, let me put you out of your misery.’ Tommy sported a brand-new, David Niven style moustache: straight and thin, clipped to within an inch of its life. He wore a Fair Isle jumper and his brown hair was brushed back from his forehead and slicked down with Brylcreem. ‘This isn’t about Dresden or Bremen or any of them. No, old chap, I’ve come to let you know there’s been a telephone call for you.’

  ‘Bloody hell, why didn’t you say?’ Edgar sprang from his seat, almost tipping over his chair as he did so. ‘Who is it? What do they want? Man or woman?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. Better run and find out.’ Tommy grinned from ear to ear. He could see from Edgar’s sudden eagerness that what the lads gossiped about was true: his flying pal, once so morose and turned in on himself, had fallen head over heels for a girl back home.

  Edgar dashed out into the corridor then back again. ‘The phone call – office or telephone box?’

  ‘Public phone.’

  He sprinted out of the barracks, across the drill yard to the red call box, where he found a fellow pilot, Frank Ellison, talking ten to the dozen down the line. He frowned then rapped sharply on the glass pane.

  Frank didn’t want to be disturbed. He made a V-sign then turned his back.

  Edgar slammed the glass with his palm. He wrenched the door open. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing? I had a call; someone was hanging on for me.’

  Frank cupped his hand over the receiver. ‘Keep your hair on. I’ve got my missis on the line.’

  Edgar slammed the glass a second time. ‘Who was calling me, do you know?’

  ‘She said her name was Joyce. I told her to ring back in five minutes.’

  ‘Christ!’ He let go of the door. Bloody Frank Ellison, bloody Tommy Wright. Idiots, both of them!

  Joyce stood in the phone box outside the post office on Main Street. She hardly noticed Esther pull down the dark green blind then come out on to the pavement in her coat and hat, ready to lock the door. Doreen and Ivy cycled by, with Kathleen close on their heels. Poppy had already gone on ahead, glad to have the morning at Brigg Farm over and done with.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ Joyce had promised. ‘I just need to make a phone call.’

  She’d entered the box, coins at the ready, phoned the exchange and asked to be put through to Edgar’s base. Did she want to call the office number or the public call box in the grounds, the operator had asked in that precise and patient way they had. Making the connection had taken an age and meanwhile Joyce’s palms had grown sweaty and her heart had raced. A person called Tommy had picked up the phone. ‘Hang on,’ he’d said, ‘I’ll try and find Edgar for you.’ Precious seconds had ticked by. The pips had sounded, she’d put more money in the slot then a voice she didn’t know told her to hang up while he had a cosy chat with his wife. Give him five minutes, he’d said, then try again.

  Five minutes passed and Joyce changed her mind three times. Yes, she would talk to Edgar and explain about the knife attack on Bill. No, she ought not to worry him. Better to wait until there was more definite news from the hospital. Then finally yes, she would ring again and bring him up to date. In the end, she looked at her watch and saw that it was time to make a second call. The same operator connected her. ‘Better luck this time,’ she said kindly as she put Joyce through.

  Fat drops of rain began to fall as Joyce inserted the money then listened to the clicks. The drops splashed on to the grey pavement slabs and dripped down the glass panes, slowly at first then gathering speed. Her heart was in her mouth as Edgar came to the phone at last.

  He spoke first. ‘Hello. Is that Joyce?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me.’

  He felt his heart leap. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘it’s marvellous to hear your voice. Are you well? Tell me what you’ve been up to.’

  ‘Yes, I’m well. And you too, I hope.’

  ‘All the better for talking to you. I miss you, you know.’

  ‘Same here.’ His voice sounded thin and distant, interrupted by crackles on the line. Outside, the rain pelted down. It bounced off the pavement and bubbled and streamed along the gutters. The street was deserted.

  ‘Joyce, is everything all right?’

  ‘It’s Bill,’ she told him hesitantly. ‘Something’s happened.’

  ‘I know. Grace mentioned it in her last letter. He’s only gone and joined up, the daft blighter.’

  ‘No, not that.’

  Edgar glanced out of the box at the short queue forming in the canteen doorway: three more chaps eager to ring their loved ones during their afternoons off. ‘Not that I blame him,’ he rattled on. ‘Joining the war effort is definitely the right thing to do. I do feel for Grace, though.’

  ‘Edgar, Bill is in hospital.’ Talking over him, she wasn’t sure if he’d heard.

  ‘Hospital?’

  ‘Yes. Alfie Craven stabbed him. Grace was there. I haven’t spoken to her yet; she’s still at the hospital.’

  ‘How bad?’ he asked.

  ‘Pretty bad. It was quite a while before the ambulance arrived. I imagine Bill lost a lot of blood.’

  ‘But will he make it?’

  ‘It’s touch and go, apparently.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, as if struggling to get a grip on his reaction. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll talk to my squadron leader.’

  ‘Will you come home?’ For Grace’s sake and because you’re the person we can all rely on.

  ‘I’ll try,’ he promised. ‘Hang on, Joyce. I’ll do my very best.’

  Grace and Edith had a strong aversion to hospitals. Both were reminded of recent events they would rather forget. For Grace it was her visits to the place they called a convalescent home near York where Edgar had been sent after his plane had been shot down over Brittany. A gracious stately home on the outside, complete with timbered gables and tall Tudor chimneys, inside it had been converted into sterile wards for soldiers whose faces had been disfigured by grenades and for airmen without limbs, the sound of whose crutches clicking along the ancient gallery she would never forget. Edith shrank from disinfected wards because of Vince’s final days in this very hospital, when he was tended by nurses in starched aprons and caps. They were efficient but distant as her husband’s heart gave in and he slipped away before her eyes. Fewer than four months had passed since then and the familiar smell of the ward, the sound of shoes squeaking across the lino, the sight of patients lying immobile on their beds had brought back the loss in vivid form.

  Now she and Grace had stayed at Bill’s bedside overnight, keeping silent vigil. His wound had been cleaned, stitched and bandaged. The doctors said that the knife had entered his chest two inches below the collarbone and penetrated his left lung, which had collapsed and caused him to be short of oxygen. Because of this and the drastic loss of blood, there was no sign yet of him regaining consciousness.

  By morning, Edith was woozy from lack of sleep. Her face was drained of colour, her skin creased, her hands trembling.

  ‘Come and have a cup of tea in the canteen,’ a young nurse suggested solicitously.

  Edith didn’t have the strength to object. She was led by the arm into the corridor, leaving Grace alone with Bill.

  ‘My love.’ Grace reached out her hand and rested it on his. The sheets were turned back to expose his bare chest and broad, strong shoulders and heav
y bandaging. His eyes were closed. ‘I’m still here,’ she whispered. ‘I’m waiting for you to wake up.’

  There was no reaction, only the shallow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

  ‘I won’t leave you,’ she promised.

  In the next bed, an elderly patient, skeleton-thin and with deep, dark eye sockets, lay with deathly stillness, his glittering gaze fixed on her.

  ‘Don’t give in,’ she begged. ‘Please, Bill, please!’

  ‘Why don’t we take Old Sloper out? It’ll perk you up a bit.’ As Brenda sat with Una in their shared bedroom after a heavy morning’s work, she saw that her companion was in desperate need of distraction. ‘It’s better than sitting here all afternoon fretting and fidgeting.’

  Una was so worn out that all she wanted to do was flop on her bed. Yet she knew she wouldn’t rest. ‘What for?’ she asked with a weary sigh. ‘I don’t feel like going on a jaunt.’

  ‘I realize that, silly.’ Brenda pulled her up from her bed then thrust her hat into her hands. ‘Put this on. Now here’s your jacket. This won’t be a joyride. This will be us forming our own little search party for your precious Angelo.’

  Una felt her heart skip a beat as she slid her arms into her sleeves. ‘But where will we look?’

  ‘We could start at the spot where they picked up the first two.’

  ‘But it’s miles away, close to Braffield air base. The sergeant at Beckwith Camp reckons they planned to steal a plane.’

  ‘That makes sense. Do we know if our boys carried out a proper search of the rest of the area?’ Brenda led the way along the landing then down the stairs.

  ‘Yes. Mrs Craven keeps in close touch with the camp. They looked but they didn’t find any other prisoners.’ Una caught up with Brenda as they ran along the kitchen corridor, heading for the back door. ‘The thing is, I don’t believe Angelo can have got that far.’

  ‘Why not?’ Lately Brenda had been so caught up in her own affairs that she hadn’t paid much attention to Una’s plight. In fact, she hadn’t even asked her why she was moping about the hostel so much in the evenings instead of joining in the search for the missing prisoners.