Barnabas Tales

by Denzil Lawrence

  The brown eyes looked at her again. “I have been in that tree most of the night. I am afraid that I can not tell you where I have come from. My mission is secret.”

  “Is that why you’re wearing ordinary clothes?”

  “Yes. And why nobody must know that I am here - do you understand?”

  She nodded “I will go and bring in the parachute.”

  “And my brief case please. The case is very important. Have you seen it? I must have my case.” There was a note of anxiety and he sat up, but fell back again immediately.

  “Now keep lying down - you’m not ready yet to sit up” He groaned. In the garden she made a bundle of the wispy caressing folds of parachute, and nearby found a monogrammed pigskin brief-case.

  Back inside, she cooked breakfast. The airman could only eat or drink while lying down and soon afterwards fell asleep. She sat beside him, checked that the dressing and bandage were secure, and slipped off his jacket and tie. He stirred and so she stroked his hair and then his cheek and neck until he settled into a deep sleep.

  Ten minutes later, silently tidying the house, she heard the postman’s bicycle in the lane. By the time he reached her gate she stood beside it. “Morning Joan - You’re early today. Only your coupons I’m afraid.” “Morning Jack - any news?” “There’s talk of a Jerry crashed Amersham way. Not much else.” “Thanks Jack.”

  The day was hot and sunny, but the cottage room remained pleasantly cool. Every half hour Joan inspected her sleeping guest. She folded up the parachute as neatly as possible, and eyed the expensive brief-case.

  At supper-time she wakened him and helped him to sit up. He could just stand and totter to the lavatory, after which he drank tea. He watched her and asked her name. Then he repeated that he was on a secret mission, that nobody must know where he was, and that he would pay for his keep until he was able to go.

  She blushed and whispered “Are you working for the Secret Service?” He nodded and put his finger to his lips. “What should I call you?” “Call me William. Do you get many visitors here?” “There is my sister who visits on Mondays, but I’m not expecting anyone else.” “Good, I hope to be better before then.”

  After supper, he unlocked his case and took a book out, but soon closed it and lay down.

  “Do you think you could climb the stairs?” she asked. “I can try.” and with her help William reached the tiny spare bedroom and lay on the bed. “There’s a jug of water there, and a pot, and here is the light switch. Anything you want, just call.”

  “Bless you, Joan” he said.

  Downstairs she wonderingly ran her fingers through the silken folds of the parachute and compared the feel with the coarse fabric of her blouse. She rubbed the silk against her arms and face and smiled.

  At the same time the duty officer at Bletchley Park tapped his teeth nervously and kept looking at the telephone.

  IT'S AN ILL FLOOD...

  “Dad! Dad!” “Yes dear.” “When are we going to hear about the new school for Sally and me?” “I’m not sure. Ask your mother. Alan has problems in the lambing sheds”

  Jane went in search of her mother, who was busy preparing the chicken feed. “Our letters should arrive on Tuesday. We’ve done all we can at this stage.” “And if we have not got into Bishops to follow Alan?” “We’ll have to cross that bridge if we need to.” “And supposing Sally and I are sent to different schools?” “Darling, let’s just wait and see. This year they seem to be combining a lottery with school catchment areas.”

  Jane sighed and went off to begin her weekend chores. Sally was already cleaning the milking parlour and soon they were too busy to worry about the following week.

  Late that evening their parents discussed schools. “I do hope Sally and Jane are allocated to Bishops. I suppose they could be sent to Ross or Ledbury, or even Bromyard.” began Rosemary. “You don’t think they would separate twins?” “I think anything is possible with the new arrangements.” “Could we have done more? If we converted to Buddhism or became Sikhs, would that help?” “Oh, don’t be silly, dear. We are faintly C of E, which should not be a problem with Bishop’s.” “And if they get sent somewhere else?” “Well, I understand there’s an appeal system. And we could think about private education.” “We can’t possibly afford that for one, let alone two.” “We could ask my parents for help, though they are already worried about the costs of nursing homes when one of them becomes senile.” “It’s too difficult for me. I’m worn out after my day in the lambing sheds. The ground is totally sodden so there is no chance of turning any livestock out, and the Wye is almost at the top of its banks. If it rises over another foot there will only be the church, the vicarage and us above water.” “All right, dear, I won’t worry you about schools until the letters come, probably on Tuesday.”

  The rains continued, the Wye overflowed, but the track from Holme Lacy causeway to the farm remained passable with care. On Tuesday Sally, Jane and Alan were driven by Land-Rover to the upper village to be picked up for school by friends in a minibus. Post arrives late in rural Herefordshire and at lunchtime a little red van picked its way along the farm track. Nicky Post-girl said “I only just made it today. If the water rises I’ll leave your mail at the village post office. What we’ll do at flood time when the post office closes later this year I don’t know. Perhaps you could nail a box to one of the big trees by the road.”

  Rosemary walked to the lambing sheds carrying a flask and the letters. “Jack! The mail is here. Shall we open it together?” They saw the contents and Rosemary exploded. “Absolute nonsense – Sally to Ross, Jane to Ledbury, so neither of them is going to Alan’s school at Bishop's or even to Hereford. We must make a fuss and appeal immediately.” Jack grunted “You are much better writing letters and filling forms. I must keep the farm going.”

  That night the family again held a council of war. All agreed that three schools in different directions made no sense. Rosemary ended the discussion. “We’ll appeal. Sally and Jane want to go to the same school and that is the very least we must achieve.” When the youngsters had gone to bed she settled to write. Outside, the rain beat down. “I’ll ring Vera Powell tomorrow evening. I scarcely know her but she’s on the Council. I’m sure she will be inundated with calls and letters. She sounded frightfully pompous at that meeting in Fownhope but she may be able to do something. I believe she’s on the Education Committee.” “The river’s still rising.” said Jack and went to bed.

  Next morning a brown waste surrounded the farm house. Muddy water covered the lower steps of Holme Lacy Church and vicarage. A pale sun threw shadows from the bare trees on Mordiford Hill, overlooking the flood. “Dad” said Alan, “Our track has totally disappeared, and from upstairs I can see water coming over the causeway.” Rosemary came through from the kitchen “The radio says almost all schools are closed because of the floods. You’ll have to put up with an extra day at home and study here, especially Alan with GCE coming soon.” Alan grimaced and after breakfast went upstairs to his room. Jack and Rosemary rode the small tractor and feed trailer up to the stock sheds on higher ground towards Holme Lacy House.

  In the middle of the morning Alan suddenly shouted to the girls “Quickly, Sally, Jane, put your things on! From up here I’ve just seen a Land Rover slide off the causeway. It’s being washed down Ferry Field. Where’s Mum and Dad?” “Up at the sheds, with the small tractor.” “We must be quick. The big one’s here. It’s very heavy and high. Bring that new drum of baler twine in the kitchen and I’ll take my climbing rope.” In the cab of the big tractor the engine fired immediately. Alan drove through the farm yard and down into the water covering their track. Brown and sinister, over-laden with rich Herefordshire soil, the flood rippled past, faster than anyone could walk or swim. As they ploughed along the track, they saw the Land Rover, half submerged and tilted, caught on a wire fence at the downriver side of Ferry Field. Twenty yards beyond the vehicle the main river surged towards Fownhope. “Have you got your m
obile? Ring Dad at the sheds and ask him to call for help!” “But you know we can’t get a mobile signal here the shadow of the hills.” “Bugger. We’ll have to do what we can ourselves. I think the Land Rover’s on the fence at present, but could be washed over and away any minute. I can probably get this tractor to the middle of Ferry Field. Then we can try to float a rope to the Land Rover for whoever is inside.” “Language, Alan! But what if this tractor gets stuck or turns over?” “We could certainly get stuck, Sally. See this tree! There’s plenty of baler twine. Tie one end to the tree, then we’ll have a life-line back to the track if we need one and should be able to wade home.” Sally jumped out, tied the twine round the tree, and climbed dripping onto the tractor again.

  Alan turned the tractor to face the field. “The gate should be here.” he said to himself. They lurched off the track deeply into the flood. Whatever was under them, gate or fence, the big tractor pushed it flat and churned into the field. Sally paid out the baler twine. “Is the engine high enough?” asked Jane. “That’s the air inlet” pointed Alan. Very slowly they moved towards the river, water washing past them from left to right. “I think we are far enough.” Alan said and picked up his treasured climbing rope. “This should reach the Land Rover.” He tied one end to the tractor. Jane spoke firmly “I’ll take it. I’m the strongest swimmer. Alan, you’re best with the tractor.” “That’s true, but you can’t swim against this. Tie the climbing rope round your chest.” said Alan. “And when you get someone out tie it to them as well, and we’ll pull you back together.”

  Jane half swam, half walked, was half washed down to the Land Rover. They could see a figure inside. The door opened, Jane tied the rope around the person who emerged, and Alan and Sally pulled them slowly towards the tractor. Now and then the figures on the end of their line subsided into the water, but they kept pulling. Two sodden, muddy, filthy figures climbed onto the tractor. “Is there anyone else in the Land Rover?” demanded Alan. Jane shook her head. “Good job it’s a mild day” she said.

  The tractor engine was still running. Alan edged into reverse and felt the wheels begin to spin. He went forward a few inches and then back again. The great mass of steel, rubber and human load began to move. Sally reeled in the baler twine as they approached the tree. “Will it get up the bank to the track?” “Probably not, but I’ll try.”

  As expected the tractor failed to climb onto the farm track, but by then their father was approaching with the small tractor and trailer. “That’s a terrible risk you took.” he growled as he arrived.

  Back in the farm house, washed, revived with hot drinks, warmed and in dry clothes, the rescued person identified herself as Vera Powell. “I was coming back from Rotherwas and thought in a Land Rover I could ignore the Road Closed signs. “Well I never!” said Rosemary “You must be our local councillor on the Education Committee. I was about to get in touch with you.” and as she turned to ladle hot soup into six plates Sally saw her wink at her husband.

  THE LIGHT FANTASTIC.

  “Take care on the dance floor, darling, some of the boys won’t know a quickstep from a quickthorn.”

  “And neither do you.” She thought, smiling a quick bright smile. She knew already who would ask her for the next dance and stood at the side of the village hall tapping her foot expectantly.

  “Alright, Sweetheart? Let’s show ‘em.” Kath spun into his arms and they slid so easily into the snappy, enticing rhythm of the tango. The other dancers made space and then applauded as the music stopped.

  “What’s the next one? Oh, a boring waltz. Let’s have a drink. Is your Mum making the sandwiches?” He squeezed her hand.

  “Yes, she can only understand Scottish dancing, but likes to keep an eye on me. I’ll have a Dandelion and Burdock, and I’ll pay for the next round.”

  They sipped their drinks watching the slow to and fro of the waltz. “Does your Dad dance?”

  “He used to before his accident – he probably could again now, but I don’t think he has the heart for it.”

  She suddenly felt dismay. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that.”

  “That’s all right – perhaps you think I shouldn’t be dancing so soon afterwards. But it will be six months next week.”

  “No, of course you should – and you do it so well. Are you going in for the competition next month?”

  “I wondered about it – if I did would you be my partner?”

  She thought she would burst with happiness, smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “Careful, now. So that’s decided.” he said and absent-mindedly wiped his hand across his cheek.

  The next dances went by – Kath’s feet floated and she knew long in advance how he would step and move and lead. “We could make a good team”, he said.

  “I was thinking that.”

  The music man announced a fifteen minutes break. They pushed to the front of the counter. Kath felt a sudden pang of tenderness to see her mother still cutting and piling sandwiches and cake. Working as usual, when she wasn’t struggling to keep home going. She looked up and saw them, wiped her hands on her apron and came over. “All right, dear? You’re not getting too hot, I hope?”

  Kath laughed “No Mum, just right. Have you met George? George, please, this is Mum.”

  “Pleased to meet you Mrs Cameron. Kath is a super dancer.”

  “Mum, we’re going to enter the Old Tyme competition next month.”

  “That’s nice. Do they have any reels or strathspeys?

  “I think they have a few. You can give us some hints.”

  Mrs Cameron smiled reminiscently “Yes, I probably could.”

  The dance finished as usual with a dimly lit and smootchy waltz. Kath and George, as close as possible, glided around as a single being. “This is paradise.” sighed Kath to herself.

  Her Mother waited quietly, car keys in hand. “Mum, could we give George a lift? He lives at the far end of Union Street?”

  “Of course, dear. It’s not out of our way, and even if it were I’d be happy to. George, can we offer you a lift?”

  “Yes please and thank you, Mrs Cameron. Where shall I sit?”

  “Come and keep me company in front. Kath will have plenty of space in the back.”

  In Union Street they stopped at the far end. George slid out gracefully. “Mrs Jones and Kath, may I invite you in for a cup of coffee?” “Safety in numbers.” thought Kath as she said “Can we Mum, please?"

  “We should make some arrangements for the competition, Mrs Cameron.”

  “I thought you had time for that all evening.”

  But she smiled and switched off the engine. Kath leaned forward and whispered as George went to the house door. “Mum – you don’t know George’s Mother was killed in a car crash at Christmas.”

  The kitchen table was covered with papers. George’s Dad pushed these away, pulled out chairs, and welcomed his visitors. “Come and sit down. Coffee in our humble abode?” He smiled. Kath noticed the black armbands.

  “Dad, this is Kath. Oh, and Kath’s Mum. Kath and I are going to go for the Old Tyme competition prize. She dances wonderfully.”

  “Honoured to meet you Kath, and Mrs. .?” “Mrs Cameron”

  “Very pleased to meet you, and thank you for the kind coffee. I’m a bit anxious about Kath – she has her college work.”

  “Oh, Mum, I can do all that and dance as well – stop worrying.”

  “Kath and George, please tell me about the competition. It is Old Tyme?”

  “Yes, Dad, very traditional but with about a quarter Scottish and Irish, as well as the ballroom dancing. We don’t know them.”

  “And can you get a coach or someone to help you?”

  “Oh, the regular dances are OK, but we’ll need to learn the Scottish ones.”

  “Kath, I used to know those so well – I was very keen on them as a girl.”

  “And George, you don’t know this, but your old Dad won a prize for his performance in the eightsome reel at school.
Perhaps we can combine to teach you the steps.”

  “How kind.” As both thought that a good part of next month might be blighted by parental attention. “But it’s only a small part of the Olde Tyme” said George and then realised that their parents were talking about Scottish dancing and taking no notice of them at all. He spoke quietly - “Let’s plan in the other room. We can manage without coffee.” and they tiptoed out.

  THE TWO-TONE VAN

  The flu had left me feeling slack and feeble. I sat draped in my chair like a damp towel watching the street through the window, dozing, then watching the street again. Late that night I got up for the bathroom and happened to glance outside. The camper van was still there; I thought I saw a light flicker behind its curtains.

  The following afternoon Mum had to go to work. I struggled into some clothes and went, despite trembling legs, out onto the street. Alongside the VW I stopped. One of the sliding windows was half open, and I’d heard a sound that might have been the whimper of an abandoned animal.

  I stopped, listened, and it came again, more like a groan this time. Someone had left a box on the ground nearby. I fetched that and stood on it to look through the window. There was a musty, sweaty smell. Although the curtains were drawn, they were not fully closed and I could see a figure lying on a couch. Another groan came.

  “Hello. Do you need help? Can I get you anything?”

  A frail voice replied “No. Don’t come in. You might catch my ‘flu.”

  “I’m just getting better from it. I don’t think I can get it twice.”

  “All right. Please come in.”

  I pulled on the handle. Stiffly the door slid open and I stepped up into the back of the camper. The air was very smelly.

  “Could you make me a drink please, and pass me one of those tablets.”

  A kettle stood on the cooker. I lit the gas, passed a box of tablets and looked more closely at the person on the couch. A wrinkled face with puffy eyes was pale and drawn and framed by the hood of an old duffel coat. After a time the face spoke.