Wedding Bells for Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  As soon as the spongy, soft grass gave way to coarser heather and fern and the land began to rise, Brenda stopped to put her shoes back on and give herself breathing space to look around. It seemed clear from this new vantage point that Donald wouldn’t have carried on climbing towards what became an almost sheer limestone cliff but would have veered off to the right towards a stretch of rough grassland interspersed with gorse and hawthorn bushes that would be ideal territory for rabbits. There he would simply have to stand and wait, gun at the ready, for the little blighters to raise their heads out of their burrows then bang, bang, bang!

  At the moment of visualizing this scene, a real gun was fired not far away from where she stood, then there was a short silence followed by three more shots. Echoes ricocheted along the valley towards the narrow, uninhabited end of the dale.

  Brenda recovered from her surprise then set off at an uneven run towards the open meadow, arms spread wide to help her balance and occasionally losing her footing on loose shale. At one point she felt the surface give way under her. She halted her slide by grabbing on to a bush before running on again, convinced that at any moment Donald would step out from behind a rock, take aim at more rabbits and fire again.

  Sure enough, she spotted two men with their backs turned, levelling shotguns and aiming across the rough meadow. Drat, he’s brought a pal along! That wasn’t part of the plan.

  The thought was only half-formed when she was thrown to the ground and bundled out of sight behind a rocky ledge. She found herself flat on her back, staring up at Donald and unable to speak.

  ‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’ he hissed, his hand clamped across her mouth. ‘For God’s sake, Brenda, are you mad? Do you want to get yourself killed?’

  Trapped beneath him, she managed to shake her head. His face was livid; spittle flew from his lips in his fury. The pressure of his hand made it difficult for her to breathe.

  With his other hand he gestured in the direction of the two marksmen. ‘Those are the two bastards who stole my guns.’

  ‘Stole them?’ Her eyes widened as she grabbed his wrist and tried to speak.

  ‘You hear me? They sneaked into the gun room and helped themselves.’

  A brief back view of two men dressed in suits and brimmed hats. Of course! The image of Moyes and Nixon standing with guns raised was etched in Brenda’s mind.

  Donald saw that the look in her eyes had changed. ‘You know them,’ he guessed, pressing down harder than before.

  She gave one nod. Sharp stones dug into her flesh. He was far heavier and stronger so she stopped struggling and stared.

  ‘Stay down. Don’t make a sound.’ Slowly he released the pressure. Another shot split the silence.

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know them too!’ she hissed as soon as she was able to speak.

  ‘What are you on about?’ He pushed her shoulders back against the ground.

  ‘Moyes, Nixon. Come off it, Donald!’

  His upper lip curled as he took hold of the front of her jacket, wrenched her up into a sitting position then shoved her out of sight behind the ledge. ‘What’s this? You know their names?’

  ‘Yes and so do you!’

  ‘No. I got a quick look at both of their faces; I’ve never clapped eyes on them.’

  ‘Moyes. Nixon,’ she repeated slowly. ‘You talked to them at Kelsey. I saw you.’

  ‘I’ve never … Ah, you mean the blokes who asked for directions!’

  ‘And that wasn’t the first time. You saw them outside the pub one Saturday afternoon as well.’

  ‘I did?’ Donald’s blue eyes narrowed in genuine confusion. ‘Sorry, I don’t recall.’ He smiled nastily as he leaned forward and cupped Brenda’s chin with his hand. ‘But since you’re so clever, why not tell me what the hell’s going on?’

  Nixon and Moyes had had a couple of busy days. They’d seemed not to mind that they stuck out like sore thumbs in the villages where they stopped the Morris Oxford and pressed locals for information about the fugitive, Alfie Craven. They even spent time in the pub in Attercliffe on the day after they’d put paid to the ginger-haired farm lad. Nixon had done the honours on that occasion and it had been a doddle: hardly any resistance, only one ruined collar. A handy stone lay nearby. There’d been two quick blows to the skull and that was the finish, end of story. Messy but effective. No regrets.

  But they still had Alfie to sort out, which is what took them to Attercliffe on the Saturday where they got chatting over a pint of bitter to a couple of off-duty Tommies who were willing to talk about the missing POWs and this led nicely into conversation about various searches that had been carried out in the area.

  ‘We’ve gone over the whole of Burnside with a fine-tooth comb but so far not a sniff,’ one of the soldiers volunteered. ‘Sarge says we’ll start in this neck of the woods come Monday. Tomorrow’s Sunday: a day of rest.’

  ‘With a bit of luck we’ll have the coppers to back us up,’ the other added. ‘They’re after a local villain – Albert, Alfred …’

  ‘Alfie Craven.’ His pal supplied the full name. ‘He stabbed a bloke. If you spot him, steer well clear – he’s still got the knife.’

  No respecters of the Sabbath, Moyes and Nixon returned to the village the next day to continue their own search. They made no secret of the fact that they were looking for Alfie, allowing a rumour to spread that they were plain-clothes police officers hot on his trail. They heard of a tramp given a rude awakening in the bus shelter first thing that morning and of another man scrounging food at the back door of the pub. Both incidents suggested that they were closing in on their quarry. And then, finally, there was an actual, unmistakable sighting by a woman on her way to church.

  ‘I saw the man you’re looking for round the back of Dale End – the big house as you come into the village.’ Their informant seemed uneasy. Neither Moyes nor Nixon looked like an arm of the law. But she told them what she’d seen: Alfie Craven acting suspiciously, crouching to fill a bottle from the stream. They thanked her and she hurried on.

  Within minutes they’d worked their silent way round the back of the house to find a gun-room door conveniently open and two shotguns complete with a box of ammunition within easy reach. From there they slipped unnoticed into one of the barns. If Alfie was in the vicinity, it was likely that he’d approach from the back in search of food and shelter.

  Alfie drank water from an empty milk bottle, making sure not to be visible from the house. His bones ached with cold and weariness; his skin itched after yet another night of sleeping rough. But he was doing all right, he reminded himself. A few more days of this and he would have shaken everyone off.

  Thirty, forty miles from here, there was little chance that he’d be recognized. Then he’d be able to use some of the money that he’d stolen from Fieldhead and the Kelletts to catch a bus to the coast – to Saltburn or Filey – where he would pick himself up and start a new life.

  But still he had to take the utmost care not to be spotted.

  The water was refreshing. He kept out of sight and made a plan to spend part of the day in one of the Whites’ barns. There were plenty of them, facing on to a big yard, with a handy copse of silver birch between the river and the nearest building. If his luck held out, he could approach one of them without being seen.

  Nixon and Moyes had chosen the smallest barn furthest from the house, where one of the Whites’ tractors was stored. Once inside, they squeezed past it then found a stepladder leading to a disused loft. There, amongst cobwebs, dismantled machine parts and years of dust, they secured a vantage point overlooking the yard and a small copse beyond. They propped the shotguns against the wall. Moyes set up a careful watch while Nixon relaxed and smoked a cigarette.

  Less than half an hour into their vigil, Nixon took his turn as lookout. The light was tricky; bright sunlight had broken through the thick cloud that had brought rain earlier that morning. The sun shone directly into his eyes so he wasn’t sure at first if t
he movement he’d spotted at the edge of the wood was simply a breeze lifting the branches and creating dappled shadows. He had to check three times before convincing himself.

  Alfie had judged the distance between the edge of the trees and the nearest barn, uncertain whether or not to risk crossing the open space. He checked and re-checked his surroundings until he was sure that he wouldn’t be spotted. Then he set off.

  He was twenty yards from safety when Moyes came down from the loft, stepped into view and levelled his gun. Nixon followed. They fired at Alfie, who dropped straight to the ground. Unhurt, he got up and made a crouching run for cover. Pellets ripped into the trunks. He dodged, dropped into the long grass, rolled and got up again. Nixon and Moyes were lousy shots. They’d fired and missed, fired again. If he could make it back to the wood, he’d be home and dry.

  Concealed behind the rocky ledge, Donald demanded an explanation. ‘Come on, Brenda, I can see that they’re not here to shoot rabbits.’

  ‘You honestly don’t know?’ It was as if someone had tossed an almost complete jigsaw into the air and the pieces had scattered in all directions. ‘You’re not involved in any of this?’

  ‘Any of what?’

  ‘Stockings, perfume, under-the-counter goods.’

  ‘We’re talking black market?’ A glance over the ledge told him that the two marksmen were still stalking their quarry. ‘Yes, that makes sense.’ Even from a back view, he got the men’s measure from their off-the-peg, pin-striped suits, broad at the shoulder, wide in the leg.

  Brenda signalled assent with her eyes.

  ‘And you thought I was caught up in that malarkey?’ He gave a short, sardonic laugh then relaxed his grip. ‘Do me a favour. But carry on, I’m all ears.’

  ‘They’ve got a grudge against Alfie.’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘Listen to me! They’re the reason he came back here in the first place. He got himself into a jam by stealing goods and cash from them, so he was forced to lie low.’

  Seconds were ticking by and Donald gradually made sense of her story. ‘That’s quite a jam,’ he muttered. ‘Perhaps we should leave those two clowns to finish Alfie off. What do you think?’

  His callous suggestion sent her head into a new spin. ‘We can’t do that. Whatever Afie’s done, this is no way to solve things.’

  He released her, then shifted his weight and sat down next to her, his back to the rock, legs splayed. He took out a cigarette and lit it with a slim, silver lighter. ‘Rough justice – what’s wrong with that?’

  ‘No, we can’t!’ Free to act at last, she raised her head above the ledge. Moyes and Nixon had vanished but a pair of partridges had been disturbed lower down the hill. They clattered and whirred away in the direction of the farm. Immediately afterwards, there were two new shots and more birds rose from the heather.

  ‘We can.’ Donald inhaled deeply. ‘I can, at least. You go ahead and risk your flipping life if you want. I’m staying here.’

  ‘You really won’t help?’ she demanded. ‘Then you’re as bad as Doreen.’

  ‘Worse, much worse,’ he taunted. ‘If you only knew.’

  Contempt rose in her throat. There was more gunfire. ‘Donald White, I don’t know how you live with yourself.’

  ‘Easy.’ He aimed a thin funnel of smoke up into the air. ‘I look after number one. Every one else can take a running jump.’

  Contempt turned to pure loathing, which drove her on. ‘I’ve got nothing else to say to you,’ she exploded. ‘Not now, not ever!’

  With this as a parting shot, Brenda left the shelter of the ledge and ran recklessly across the rough meadow, following the direction of the startled partridges and the sound of renewed gunfire.

  The woods hadn’t saved Alfie after all. Nixon and Moyes were too hot on his heels for him to hide so he kept on running, ever more hampered by his sore ribs. He avoided another shower of pellets which flicked harmlessly off rocks and tore through leaves but they kept on coming as Alfie ducked and dived, raising game birds as he staggered on. Ahead was a deep hollow then the rough, open stretch of land where it would be well nigh impossible to find cover so, as he dipped out of sight, he backtracked and found a boulder to hide behind. He held his breath as his pursuers passed his hiding place and carried on up the hill. But impatience spoiled his tactic; he broke into the open too quickly in a bid to double back to the wood. Nixon heard him and swung round. He fired.

  Now it was chaos: all three men running, tripping, stumbling. Moyes yelled his name. Alfie didn’t stop. Shoot me in the back, damn you, he cursed to himself. Get it over with.

  Nixon and Moyes stopped to reload. Alfie gained ground. He reached the wood with its tall, white trunks then ran on towards the Whites’ barns, a glimmer of hope propelling him towards the biggest of them. Surely he would find a dark corner where no one could winkle him out. Meanwhile, people would come out of the house to investigate the ruckus on the hillside. They would challenge Moyes and Nixon and send them packing.

  He fled into the barn to be confronted by two threshing machines with their open metal maws and mighty steam-fired engines. They towered over him but there was just enough space to squeeze between two of the chutes then slither down and find a safe hiding place underneath the biggest machine. He wormed under the belly of the beast, across the oil-stained floor, using his elbows to ease himself forward.

  ‘Which way?’ Nixon’s high-pitched voice reached Alfie from the edge of the yard.

  ‘Try in that first building. I’ll stay here and keep watch.’ Moyes was short of breath.

  There was the sound of footsteps followed by a creaking door then silence.

  ‘Nothing,’ Nixon reported back.

  Moyes swore. ‘The bastard’s here somewhere. Try the stables.’

  More footsteps. Alfie breathed in engine oil and coal dust. He waited.

  ‘Brenda, why are you still here?’ Hettie shouted from the terrace of the main house. ‘I ordered you to leave.’

  Brenda had waded across the river. Her plan to skirt the copse and take what she thought was a short cut had been spoiled by Hettie. ‘Quiet!’ She pointed towards the barns. ‘Wait there. I’ll join you.’

  Hettie ignored her. She came down from the patio, along the garden path and out into the field to confront Brenda.

  ‘Stay down!’ Brenda ran the final few yards, caught hold of Hettie and attempted to pull her back into the garden when she spotted Moyes and Nixon, guns at the ready.

  ‘Both of you, stay where you are.’ Moyes had followed the sound of women’s voices and brought Nixon with him. Together they stood, legs wide apart, aiming at Brenda and Hettie.

  Hettie had lived with shotguns all her life and was having none of it. She broke loose from Brenda and walked steadily towards the two men. ‘My family owns this farm. I’m the one who dishes out orders around here. I’ll thank you to return those guns to their rightful owners.’

  Brenda steeled herself to join Hettie. ‘Be careful,’ she whispered.

  ‘I said, stay where you are,’ Moyes threatened.

  ‘And I said, give me those guns.’

  From his filthy hiding place, Alfie smiled to himself. Not only were his town-based enemies lousy shots, they were on the point of being ejected from the premises by a pair of women. He almost laughed out loud as he prepared to roll out from under the threshing machine.

  Moyes stared at Hettie from under the tilted brim of his hat; a church-going type in a maroon dress with her dark hair primly pinned behind her ears. He took his time to run through his options.

  ‘If you please,’ she insisted.

  For a moment Brenda imagined that Moyes would pull the trigger at point-blank range. Nixon too would have fired in the blink of an eye.

  ‘All right, you win.’ Unexpectedly Moyes let the gun drop to his side. Nixon frowned and held his aim until Moyes reached out to tilt the barrel towards the ground. ‘Forget it, Clive,’ he muttered as he handed his own gun to Hetti
e. ‘It can wait.’

  Alfie grinned again. He wriggled out from under the machine and stood up, rubbing his oil-stained palms on his trousers. His shoulder knocked against a handle that opened the cab door. It swung wide and hit the side of the neighbouring vehicle with a loud metallic clang.

  Quick as a fox, Nixon turned and darted towards the barn. He flung back the wide wooden door, raised his gun and aimed at Alfie, who was trapped between the two threshing machines. He fired from a distance of ten yards.

  Moyes reacted by charging at Hettie, knocking her over and sprinting up the garden then round the side of the house on to the drive, where he found an open-topped car sitting on the drive complete with ignition key. He had no idea if Nixon had hit his target. Anyway, for once, the idiot would have to get himself out of a tight spot. He, Howard Moyes, wasn’t willing to stick around and help. So he vaulted into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Within seconds he’d pulled away without a backward glance.

  Brenda stooped to help Hettie up but Hettie pushed her away. ‘What are you waiting for? You’ve got your motor bike. Go after him.’

  It was enough to send Brenda racing up the path. She heard the car engine roar into life and the rattle of gravel spat up by its tyres. Rounding the corner, she ran for her bike and kicked it into action. Moyes had reached the road and turned up the hill, accelerator pressed hard on the floor, racing up the gears as he approached the blind bend.

  He braked late and felt the car swerve, fought to right it, but the centrifugal force of the spin flung his hands from the steering wheel. He lost control.

  Brenda saw it from a distance of fifty yards: the screeching swerve, the spin, the roll of the car on to its bonnet, the impact as it mounted the verge and hit the wall. She stopped the bike, dismounted and walked slowly towards Les’s MG.

  A second car approached the scene of the crash. Edgar and Joyce had witnessed it from the top of the hill. Arriving less than a minute after the event, they approached on foot to see if they could help. They found Brenda crouched by the upturned wreckage, saw the wheels turning in the eerie silence.