by Jenny Holmes
‘Hold on a second.’ Kathleen tilted her head to one side. ‘He said you were his dream girl?’
‘Yes. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing. I just thought—Oh, never mind. Carry on.’ Kathleen picked up her speech to show that she was no longer interested in Brenda’s romantic escapades.
‘As I say, I was swept off my feet,’ Brenda told Una. ‘I was a little bit woozy from the whisky but I did manage to draw the line when Mac’s hands began to … er … wander, shall we say?’
‘Oh, please!’ Una put her hands over her ears. ‘Spare us.’
Laughing, Brenda reached for her hairbrush and ran it through her wet hair. ‘Just wait until he gets an eyeful of me tomorrow night in all my glory – in my yellow dress with the white daisy pattern, my white sling-back sandals, with a touch of rouge and lipstick to finish the effect. You watch – he won’t be able to keep his hands off me … again!’
‘Are you sure that’s what you want?’ Una sensed a strain behind Brenda’s gaiety – a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.
‘Yes, why not? No more playing the wallflower for me. I’ll be the envy of the Jeans and Dorothys of this world when they see me cavorting with Mac.’
‘But …?’ Una prompted, while Kathleen made an impatient display of picking up her washbag and towel then heading for the bathroom.
‘But nothing,’ Brenda insisted, putting down her brush and going to sit on Una’s bed. ‘Ignore me – I was only trying to cheer us all up.’
‘I know.’
‘I seem to have nettled Kathleen – I’m not sure why.’ Brenda felt her own mood plummet. ‘Then again, everyone’s been down in the mouth today, which shouldn’t come as any surprise after last night. How are you bearing up, Una? Have you got over the shock?’
Una ran her fingers along the edge of her sheet and avoided looking at Brenda. ‘Did Joyce mention what some of the others are saying about me?’
‘That you were secretly on the gunner’s side? She didn’t have to – Jean and her cronies made it obvious. But you know what I think? I’m absolutely, one hundred per cent certain that the best way to deal with this situation is to ignore them. Keep in mind what really happened – that you were the one who kept your head while the rest of us were running around from pillar to post, not getting anywhere. Without you, he’d have got clean away.’
Una felt hot tears well up. She began to concertina the sheet between her fingers.
‘What is it?’ Brenda asked gently.
‘The trouble is there might be a grain of truth in what they’re saying.’ The tears spilled over and cooled on her cheeks. ‘I didn’t feel towards him the way we’re meant to. We’re all supposed to hate the enemy, aren’t we? And I didn’t.’
Brenda sat quietly, waiting for her to go on.
‘He’d watched two of his friends die a nasty death and he nearly died himself. And do you know something? He might have been a big, strong chap but his eyes were frightened – when I found him inside the plane and afterwards when he found his way down to the road, when he made me go with him into Peggy’s barn. He was scared to death. And I felt sorry for him. There, I’ve said it.’
‘It’s only natural. That doesn’t turn you into a traitor, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’
‘But I could have called out to Grace and you earlier if I’d wanted.’ Seconds had ticked by as the gunner had crouched in the barn – sickle in hand – when she, Una, had teetered on the brink. Had she committed treachery in those moments when she’d been caught between pity and duty and had failed to act?
Brenda took her hands in hers and spoke softly. ‘Listen to me: you’re no more a traitor than the rest of us. I won’t have you thinking this way. Of course you felt sorry for the poor soul – who wouldn’t? But you were the brave one who crawled into that plane without knowing what you were going to find. You were the one who stayed in there when any moment the whole thing might have gone up in flames. Without you, we’d never have got him out. You saved a man’s life – do you hear me?’
Una nodded. ‘I’m mixed up. It’s all a jumble inside my head.’
‘Because you were bang in the middle of it – that’s why. It’ll take a while for you to see straight again, but when you do you’ll find that I’m right. I’ll say it again – feeling sorry for someone is not the same as helping them to escape. You have nothing to blame yourself for.’
‘And Angelo?’ Una needed one last reassurance.
Brenda squeezed her hands and smiled. ‘You love him. How can that be wrong?’
‘I do love him.’ It was one certainty in a shifting, dangerous world. Una squeezed back. ‘And he loves me.’
For the first time since she’d arrived at Fieldhead, Joyce spent the night wishing she was elsewhere. While her room-mates slept and the clock crept towards six o’clock, she stood at the window, looking out on the bleak woodland scene and thinking of the rolling hills of Warwickshire, of apple orchards frothy with pink blossom, of timbered cottages with thatched roofs, of sedate swans sailing along the tranquil river and of sheep grazing the pastures of her father’s farm. She was aware that it was all seen through the rosy, hopeless glow of nostalgia – nevertheless, the pictures and sounds filled her mind. She heard her father’s excited voice calling up the stairs to her when she was a child. Joyce, get dressed. Come down and see our first lambs – two sets of twins. It was still dark and the barn was lit by paraffin lamps. Four newborn lambs nestled in the yellow straw. Later, much later, the unmistakable sound of Walter’s early-morning footsteps crossing the empty farmyard – long strides before he flung open the door and found her struggling with her father who lay slumped over the kitchen table, dead to the world. ‘Leave him to me,’ he said, kicking away the bottles that rolled under his feet. ‘Go on outside, Joyce. I’ll sort him out.’ But it was too late. One week after that, everything had gone: the farm to creditors, her father to drink and despair and Walter back to the navy.
I’m better off up here in Yorkshire, she decided. Here where memories of home flitted into her consciousness only occasionally, where she could at least feel she was working hard and doing some good.
I’ll be glad to get Christmas over. With a bit of luck all the fuss surrounding Una and the Dornier will have died down and we’ll be back to normal. Just ditch digging and egg collecting, milking and mucking out, and looking forward to spring and the uplifting work of turning the dark soil with the keen steel blade of the plough, ready for new growth.
A movement caught her attention in the yard below – a door swinging open, a long shadow on the stone flags. Or had she imagined it? A glance at her watch told her that it was still two hours before dawn. The movement of the door had been no more than the wind blowing, the shadow cast by the moon through tree branches. And yet she wasn’t convinced. She looked more closely to see that the open door belonged to the outhouse where Ivy had found Una’s scarf. That did it – Joyce would get dressed and then go down and take a look, not knowing what to expect, only wanting to make sure that she hadn’t been imagining things after all.
She tiptoed downstairs carrying her shoes and a torch. The house was still asleep. There were no lights in the corridor leading to the kitchen, no sign of Hilda or any of the other girls. Outside in the yard, Tibbs the cat stalked towards her, green eyes glaring. ‘I’m sorry, Puss, I haven’t got any food for you,’ she murmured. The cat flicked her tail and walked on.
Of course – it must have been Tibbs casting long shadows, weaving in and out of the row of outhouses. Joyce was on the point of turning back but one small niggle prevented her. Yesterday, amid the jumble of desks and chairs, Una’s bright red tartan scarf had stood out, instantly recognizable in the gloom. The fiery argument with Ivy had happened in a flash, but in the split second before that, Joyce had seen something else out of the corner of her eye that she’d meant to follow up. Afterwards it had completely slipped her mind until this moment when she stood at the open door.
&
nbsp; It was worth a look now, she decided. She directed her torch until its beam fell on the upturned desks, entering the musty space but making sure that she propped open the door with the nearest chair. The last thing she wanted to do was somehow to get trapped inside and have to call for help. She looked again at the easels and desks and spotted something white tucked between them and the wall. She reached for it and pulled out a small handkerchief with a lace edging and pale-blue embroidered flowers in one corner. When she felt in the crevice a second time, she found something even more surprising – a neatly rolled nylon stocking, soft and silky to the touch.
Joyce shone the torch on the objects that she held in the palm of her hand. Though she couldn’t prove it, she felt convinced that both belonged to Una. The thought made the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. What on earth were Una’s scarf, handkerchief and stocking doing here in the disused outhouse? She shook off an encroaching shudder then dragged the chair away from the door, catching it before it closed. She swung the torch around the yard, shrugging off the idea that someone was watching her and making her way back towards the house. She entered through the back door into the kitchen, to come face to face with Hilda.
‘Gracious, you frightened the life out of me!’ Hilda stood in her slippers and flowered overall with rolling pin raised, ready to strike. She had a big pan of porridge on the stove behind her and rows of bowls set out on the table.
Joyce stared at her without speaking.
‘For goodness’ sake, Joyce, come in and close that door. Turn off your torch – don’t waste the battery. Where have you been?’
‘I found these in the outhouse.’ Joyce handed over the gauzy stocking and the handkerchief. ‘I think they’re Una’s.’
‘What were they …? What were you …?’ Confusion puckered Hilda’s lips and creased her forehead.
‘I haven’t the faintest idea what they were doing there – or her scarf, either.’ Finding Hilda in the kitchen had tipped Joyce further off balance and the words tumbled out. ‘I thought I saw someone in the yard so I came downstairs to check.’
‘Stop right there.’ Hearing the word ‘scarf’ reminded the warden of the previous day’s incident with Ivy. ‘What do you mean by throttling a fellow Land Girl with Una’s scarf?’
Joyce felt the blood rush to her cold cheeks. ‘I’m sorry but Ivy said some rotten things about Una.’
‘And you stood up for her?’ Though Hilda couldn’t afford to show partiality, she found it easy to imagine Joyce sticking up for her friends and equally easy to picture Ivy being mean spirited. ‘Let’s get one thing straight – if you have a dispute with a fellow worker, you must always come to me.’
‘I know that. I’m sorry.’ Joyce’s thoughts whirled chaotically and then suddenly fell into place. ‘Frank Kellett!’
Hilda shot her a quizzical look.
‘Don’t you see? These three things – Una’s scarf, the stocking, the lace handkerchief – they mean that Frank has been back. He’s been here, in this building without anyone knowing. He’s most likely been up to her room!’
‘But why?’ There was no rhyme or reason that Hilda could work out. She stared at the flimsy objects draped over her palm.
Joyce spoke loudly and with conviction. ‘Because, in his odd way, Frank is in love with Una.’
The truth of this and the trouble that it brought with it struck Hilda so hard that she had to sit down.
‘He can’t say it in words so he shows it by following her around. Then, after he’s been beaten senseless by his father …’
‘Yes, what did Frank do to deserve that?’
‘Maybe Una isn’t the first one. Some of the girls here say that Frank followed Eunice around too.’
‘So perhaps Joe knew the signs and wanted to stop it happening again.’ Hilda closed her eyes and sighed. ‘Yes – more than likely.’
‘Frank was punished and ran off – we know that much.’ Joyce followed her train of thought to its conclusion. ‘So he grows desperate. He follows Una to where she lives. She finds him in the kitchen and doesn’t understand what he’s doing there. He still can’t get through to her and she falls over and hits her head. Then he pulls out the knife and threatens us, you call the police and so it goes on, out of Frank’s control. It’s only after things have calmed down that he dares to come back. He finds that the closest he can get to Una is through bits of clothing that belong to her.’ Joyce took back the stocking and dangled it in front of Hilda. ‘So he breaks into the hostel and steals whatever he can lay his hands on.’
‘We must call the police again,’ Hilda decided. ‘We must warn Una. We mustn’t let her out of our sight.’
‘If I’m right,’ Joyce agreed. ‘First we have to make sure that these things do belong to her – without worrying her, I mean.’
‘Yes, it wouldn’t do to upset her without good reason. How will you find out?’
‘I’ll wait until she comes down for breakfast then I’ll take a look in her drawer. There may be other hankies the same as this one.’
‘Yes and report straight back to me.’ Beset by fresh worries heaped onto her lap two days before Christmas, the warden agreed to Joyce’s plan perhaps too readily. What with dead Germans on the fell, a madman on the loose and loud grumblings in the ranks, Hilda didn’t know which way to turn.
CHAPTER TWENTY
It didn’t take Joyce long to prove her theory. While everyone was at breakfast, she slipped into Una’s room and went through her things, lifting the neatly folded jumpers and blouses, the silky underwear and headscarves until, at the back of the drawer, she came to small items such as handkerchiefs, socks and stockings. Her hand hovered over them as a ripple of guilt ran through her. These things were highly personal and it felt wrong to be rummaging in someone else’s drawer. Worse still, it placed Joyce in Frank Kellett’s surreptitious shoes.
There were faint voices in the hallway followed by the opening and closing of the front door. It meant that breakfast was coming to an end.
If Joyce was right, Frank had done exactly this – waiting for his moment before creeping upstairs and along the corridor, coming into the room and searching the chest of drawers until he found out which one belonged to Una. Deaf Frank in his worn-down boots and threadbare jacket, with his sunken eyes and hangdog look, rummaging through her white petticoats, fingering her brassiere and suspender belt, lifting up one of her stockings. He would have had to rely on vibrations on the stairs to warn him of interruptions. What if Brenda or Kathleen had approached the room – what then? Joyce glanced at the sash window and imagined him sliding it open and squatting on the stone sill, reaching for a nearby drainpipe to shimmy down, then away across the yard with his nylon trophy. She shuddered then lifted out a small pile of lace handkerchiefs – one, two, three, four small linen squares edged with lace and decorated with pale-blue embroidered flowers.
‘How’s Una?’ Grace asked Brenda and Joyce when they came knocking at the door of the Blackmith’s Arms at nine o’clock that morning. They were armed with snow-clearing shovels, wrapped in coats and scarves, with their slouch hats tilted low over their foreheads to protect them from light flurries of snowflakes blowing in on a northerly wind.
‘She still has her heart set on staying here over Christmas,’ Brenda explained.
‘Is that out of a sense of duty, or does a certain Angelo have something to do with it?’
‘A bit of both, I expect. Anyway, Ma C’s kept her on light duties for the day,’ Brenda explained. ‘Some of the farmers are winding down so there’s not as much call for Land Army labour until after Christmas. That’s why we’ve been sent to clear the Institute yard, ready for tonight. You’re to join us for a morning’s work snow shifting.’
‘Says who?’ According to Grace’s rota she was due at Brigg Farm.
‘Says Ma C.’ Brenda looked up at the sky and wondered if there was any point starting work while the snow continued to fall. ‘Mrs M has handed everything over to her while
Mr M is in hospital. Our orders are to work here until midday then do half a day out at Brigg Farm.’
While Grace went to fetch her coat and hat, Joyce followed Brenda’s gaze. ‘What’s the weather forecast for today?’
‘Snow at first then blue skies later. I reckon we should hold off until it stops snowing. We could get the Institute key off Bob Baxendale and start setting out chairs for tonight’s performance instead.’
‘Good idea.’ Joyce was distracted by the snow dancing through the air before settling and melting on her face. She was fretting about leaving Una under Hilda’s watchful eye.
‘Couldn’t she come to Burnside with Brenda and me?’ she’d asked the warden after she’d gone to the office and reported her latest findings about Frank.
Mother-hen Hilda had been adamant. ‘No, it’s best for her to stay here. I’ll find some housework for her to do.’
‘We’d look after her …’ Joyce had tried to insist but Hilda had shooed her out of the office. ‘Will you telephone the police?’ she’d asked before the door was shut in her face.
No answer. And when Joyce had tutted and muttered a futile protest, she’d seen Jean, Ivy and Dorothy hugger-mugger in a corner, casting dark looks in her direction.
‘What’s up?’ Ivy had called across the hallway. ‘You’ve got a face like thunder.’
‘Mind your own business,’ Joyce had retorted before rushing off.
‘What’s up with you?’ Brenda unconsciously echoed Ivy as Grace rejoined them. They crossed the road together and went to rouse the caretaker who lived in the end of terrace house next door to the Institute.
‘Nothing. I’m concerned about Una, that’s all.’
‘We all are,’ Brenda agreed. There was a pause while Bob answered their knock then produced the large iron key from his pocket.
‘You can save me a job by sweeping the floor while you’re at it,’ he said slyly.
‘As long as you promise to help us set out buffet tables in the kitchen before our audience arrives,’ Brenda shot back.
