In the Shadow of Winter

by Lorna Gray

I heard his familiar laugh. “And a very good morning to you too, Ellie. I was beginning to get worried when I missed you yesterday – Freddy said you were wrestling with the animals. Everything is all right up there, I presume, what with this latest burst of lovely weather and all?”

  “Fine actually, thanks,” I said carefully, determined if I could to contain my delight to within the bounds of normal pleasantries. “How are things with you?” A snatched glance sideways showed me my companion’s face and it wasn’t so very controlled any more. I could almost feel his ears straining to catch my friend and neighbour’s words.

  “Fine, fine,” John said shortly. “Now Ellie, I imagine you’ve heard what’s happened?”

  A tiny pause as reality hit hard. Then, with an impressive air of calm; “Mrs Ford told me about it just now. How is Jamie’s sister doing? It sounds awful.”

  “Oh, she’s well enough.” The concern was swiftly dismissed. “I’m actually ringing about you. Has he contacted you?”

  Another silence while I frantically adjusted my thoughts to this new reality. All I could hear was the faint hiss and crackle on the line and the pounding of my own heart.

  “Who, Matthew?”

  This was it then. I only had to say one word, I only had to speak.

  “No.”

  My voice came out as a hoarse croak. I barely managed to say the next over the rushing in my ears; “Should he have?”

  The guilty silence that to me seemed to span several lifetimes must have passed by John in the blink of an eye because when he answered, his voice was merely touched by friendly concern:

  “Not as such, no, well that is to say, I know he courted you in the past and I can’t help worrying that he might have passed your way. For old time’s sake, you know? I know you don’t like my fussing but it does worry me that you’re all alone there. You’ve got Freddy of course, but I’m not sure what good he’d be able to do…” He paused before adding, “You are all right, aren’t you? Croft hasn’t turned up?”

  Oh God, I thought, here we go again.

  “That was all a long time ago, John, nearly eight years,” I said firmly. My hand was shaking where it fiddled with the telephone wire. “I can’t see why you think he would come to me now.”

  “So you haven’t seen him?” he persisted. “Did Mrs Ford tell you what he’s done? I saw Jamie’s body and it was savage. He’ll hang for sure when they catch him.”

  I shut my eyes as I prepared to lie again, “No, John, I haven’t seen him.”

  “Good. And you’ll call me if he does contact you?” He took my agreement as given. “Anyway, on to a more pleasant subject. They’re promising a thaw so the weekend’s Dance might actually happen. Would you like to go with me?”

  “Oh!” I gasped, taken aback. “I hadn’t really thought…I, um … I’ll think about it. Will that do?”

  He gave a laugh, “Yes Ellie, that will do. Just don’t keep me waiting too long. Bye, and Ellie?”

  “Yes, John?”

  “Be careful.”

  I slowly set the telephone back down onto its cradle. I already knew that when I turned, I would look up, straight into the bare furnishings of an empty room.

  I didn’t sleep much that night. Nor did I find much rest when I did. Outside, the wind had swallowed what footsteps he had left and I saw no sign as I did my usual tour of the barns at evening stables. I wasn’t even sure if that should be a relief.

  In my father’s day, the farm had been full of young hunters who were being backed before being sent off to their wealthy owners to start their careers. We had farmed sheep too on the steep valley fields which stretched down from behind the house. But then the war had come, my father had died and the horses were taken away to other breaking yards or to play their part in the war effort by working the land. Now Freddy and I scraped by on the small rental income that the pasture fields brought, the price of a few ponies at the yearly sales and my rather doubtful skills as a riding instructor for the local village children. I wouldn’t like to imply we were poor hapless creatures, and we certainly fared better than many, but even teaching had dwindled for the moment thanks to the weekend’s latest turn of incredible weather.

  The next day was no better. The morning dawned reluctantly to yet another dreary day; a blackbird was hopping about amongst the chickens who were waiting impatiently beneath the kitchen window for their breakfast. Its breath was misting in the still air and the cockerel looked too cold to crow.

  Behind this faintly pathetic scene, a rickety fence marked the limits of my vegetable garden where repeated hoarfrosts had turned earlier snowfalls to stone. Anything left in the ground was guaranteed to have been ruined but there were a few crates of root vegetables stored in the gloom of the small outhouse; provided that they hadn’t been destroyed by frost and, of course, I could actually dig them out.

  Turning to the stove, I realised that I might need to now. The dish of last night’s stew that marked the remains of our meat ration for the week; the dish that should have fed the boy and me for at least another day, was empty. I bolted the kitchen door after that but it didn’t do any good. The next morning another stew and the end of my coarse home-baked bread had vanished too.

  That night, I gave in. I left the door unlocked, the bread, plate and cutlery ready on the table and a pile of gauze and iodine with instructions to re-dress his wounds.

  Chapter 6

  Apparently John’s hopes of a thaw by the weekend were not quite as foolishly optimistic as I had thought. Slipping out of the house into the faint grey of early morning, I was amazed to see that there seemed to be a promise of a brighter day ahead; the clouds were lifting at the horizon to show a hint of paler grey here and there, and although the breeze had risen again in the night, it actually felt for the first time as though the steady gusting might be carrying with it a very little warmth.

  Encouraged, I decided to risk putting the horses out into their paddocks – they certainly wanted the exercise – and I was going to just turf all the animals out and then get on with the day’s chores when something about the way Beechnut sighed as I gave her some breakfast made me sneak back inside to collect her tack. My cosy little yard was silent as I clambered on to the chestnut's back from a convenient wall.

  Slithering down the submerged streambed towards the deeper isolation of the valley bottom, trees closed around us absorbing everything until all sounds were muffled except for the regular whisper of unshod hooves over deep wintered ground and the soft collapse of snow falling from a height in the distance. A dry stone wall crept alongside; beyond it, a wind cleared field lay dotted with the hulking mushroom-shaped remains of sheep-grazed haystacks. It was a different scene from the past years that had found me working endlessly to gather in, to plough or to sow alongside a giggling and yet startlingly efficient army of Land Girls. Then the countryside had been full of flare and chatter and an extraordinary riot of colour and it was a stark contrast to the field’s present wide acres which seemed very much to have been painted in tones of muted sepia.

  But not quite as muted as it had been, perhaps. As I set Beechnut at the steep banks that lined the valley and back towards home, I thought I heard the faint hiss of water meeting snow over the sound of her laboured breathing. The sound faded again as we reached the top but slowly, as we weaved between the vast drifts that glistened madly and lurked like towering sand dunes along the hedgelines, the light whisper became more regular and when we crossed the wide expanse of wind-cleared hilltop, I abruptly and conclusively found myself being met by the cool unexpected kiss of misted rain to the face.

  After all the weeks and months, this was, needless to say, quite a startling development and I was still drifting along with my eyes half shut and a lunatic smile on my face when the chestnut suddenly gave a sharp snort and stopped.

  Her ears and eyes were fixed acutely upon the route ahead. She felt as though she might try to turn and run at any moment and automatically putting a calming hand on the suddenly t
aut muscles of her neck, I peered intently about us trying to make out what she had spotted. An unpleasant recollection was flitting through my mind of one lone man and our last encounter on this hilltop, and I wondered for a moment whether, as my horse watched him, he was likewise watching me.

  But then, after a painfully tense pause while I still tried and failed to identify what could possibly have alarmed my brave little mare, I saw movement in the distance.

  “Oh my God,” I sobbed and urged her forwards into canter.

  I arrived back with an angry flurry of hooves to find the yard full of men and dogs. They appeared to be milling about in some disorder and as one they turned to stare when we burst onto the yard in a sweating streaming mess.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

  The horse was brought to a slithering halt just inside the gateway. She was plunging and threatening to kick out but the men simply stood there, barring my way and gawping stupidly. Their blank silence was intensely infuriating and, urging the stamping horse forwards once more, I used her as a weapon to force a path through them and retake possession of my yard.

  Amazingly, the men parted like obedient cattle. Seizing my advantage, I wheeled the wild-eyed horse about:

  “Get out of my yard this instant!”

  My low growl was swallowed by the mizzle and banks of hulking snow, and it looked for a moment like they might argue, but a half rear from Beechnut sent them scuttling for the gate. If I was livid, she was raging; she was fighting my hand for control of the rein and much as I valued the effect she was creating, self-preservation made me hastily throw myself down from her back before she could rear again.

  Dragging the saddle from her back, I shoved her into a stable where she proceeded to vent her fury on the wall. Then, pretending to be oblivious to the racket behind me, I marched up to the assembled men, stood squarely before them and barked my question:

  “Will one of you kindly explain just what exactly you think you are doing on my yard?”

  This time the full force of my anger carried into every corner and it was followed by an uncomfortable silence as each man hoped someone else was in charge. Finally, however, one cleared his throat;

  “We’re on the hunt for Croft, Miss. They reckon he must have gone to ground after all this fresh snow.”

  Another chipped in with a revoltingly ingratiating tone, “It’s all official, Miss. We’re helping the police.”

  This brought a murmur of agreement from the others.

  “Are you?” I said acidly. “And that gives you the right to come without permission on to my yard where there is valuable livestock, does it?”

  “We’ve got to search every farm. Mr Langton said so.”

  This man’s tone was considerably less deferential and I suspected that now that their alarm had abated, my abrasive attitude was making them feel significantly more self-righteous by the moment.

  “Oh, he did, did he?” There was a crash behind me as Beechnut started on her door. “And where is Mister Langton?”

  “In the house … Miss.” This last was hastily added as I glowered.

  Sweet heaven, were there traces of his burnt dressings in the ashes?

  To the men I said crisply; “Right then. I’d better go and see Mr Langton, hadn’t I? In the mean time you may search the barns, but stay clear of the stables and you are not to bring your dogs. I will not have my animals distressed. Do you understand?”

  Oh Eleanor, you really are a fool.

  I stood there, glaring, as the men sullenly handed their dogs over to a spotty youth and then set about poking into the various corners of my barns. I was thankful to see that they were reluctant to go into the darker niches and when they began half-heartedly probing the haystack, I finally found enough resolve to march away across the roadway and towards my house.

  I hardly even knew whether I was doing the right thing in leaving them unattended, and once inside my uncertainty increased horribly when I found only Freddy making a cup of tea for a very relaxed-looking visitor. John was, in fact, looking perfectly at his ease; he was sitting in my kitchen, fiddling idly with a scuff on the well-worn tabletop and apparently totally unaware that Freddy’s hands were shaking as they set down the milk jug for his tea – although given that they always shook in John’s faintly intimidating presence, this oversight was not perhaps entirely unreasonable.

  I, however, was not so oblivious and I couldn’t help the questioning look as Freddy thrust a steaming cup at the table and fled silently past me for the door. But thankfully John barely registered the tea or the boy’s hasty departure as he politely rose to his feet to welcome me.

  I cut curtly across his friendly greeting. “What are all those dogs doing on my yard, John? They’re upsetting my animals!”

  Settling back in his chair, John simply smiled his warm lazy smile and I had to fight very hard to resist the urge to throw something at him. He was a handsome man and with his blue eyes, dark hair and active sense of humour that sometimes strayed into the roguish he had never lacked admirers, but despite our childhood closeness, or probably because of it, there had never been a hint of anything between us. It was a great relief to me to have a friendly influence in my life who did not seem to have his own personal agenda, and I wondered if he knew how much I appreciated it. Although, of course, just at this precise moment, any particular sense of this long-standing affection was being rather coloured by the shock of finding him in my apparently empty-of-fugitives kitchen.

  I noticed then, with that abstraction of thought that sometimes follows a fright, that he must first have sat in the broken chair because it was now resting at a rather jaunty angle against the table, but thankfully he had the good grace to say nothing. Instead he said, with perfect dignity in the face of my agitation:

  “Ellie, surely you know we’re helping the police to hunt for Croft? That damned man has been on the run for days and it’s time we caught him – and if it means searching all the farms in the area, then nothing and no one will stop me from doing it.”

  “I want to see justice done as much as anyone,” I said waspishly, silently congratulating myself on not needing to lie, “but I fail to see how you think this is helping! I’ve got horses out there going mad in their stables because of your men and their dogs. They were on my yard without permission!”

  “But you weren’t here, Ellie. And we are helping the police.”

  “I dare say you are,” I snapped. Then I wondered suddenly if Freddy was still nearby and could hear us, and so lowered my voice. “But you are not the police, and I suspect do not have a warrant. Therefore your men were trespassing. I’ve allowed them to search the barns this time, John, but I have to say that I am not very happy about being thrust into the thick of this…this lynch mob.”

  I stopped to collect myself and realised with a painful kick to the heart that he was looking at me curiously. Then his mouth formed a sympathetic smile,

  “Lynch mob? I hardly think so, Ellie, dear. If the law chooses to hang him, that’s their business; you can’t possibly think it is a wish of mine.” But then the smile faded and he added slowly. “You’re being very defensive. Are you all right? He’s not been harassing you, has he? You seem very uptight and I wouldn’t want anyone to think that you had anything to hide. People still talk about you and him, you know.”

  “Well they should keep their thoughts to themselves!” I retorted shrilly and then pulled myself up as I heard the hysterical pitch to my voice. Perfectly genuinely, I started to laugh. “Oh John, don’t mind me. It was just a shock coming back to a yard full of all those men. I live a quiet life here – as you know – and I’m not used to seeing so many people at once. I’m over-reacting, that’s all.”

  He grinned, instantly understanding. “I’m sorry too, it must have been a bit of a shock. I didn’t think.”

  There was a pause and I thought for a brief optimistic moment that we could get back onto our usual friendly footing – it was rare for us to
bicker like we had as children and I did not like to fall out with him. But this time, instead of the usual friendly giggle at our foolishness, I realised that he was gazing at me appraisingly, and when he next spoke, it was in a tone that showed his distaste at having to delve into a topic that he knew would be difficult for me.

  “I’m sorry to have to ask you, but have you really seen nothing of him? No, let me finish – I’m not prying, but after all these years and still single, well, it makes people wonder if you’re waiting for something … or someone.” He was scrutinising my face for a reaction. “And therefore, with that in mind, it isn’t impossible to believe that you might feel you should help him, even after what he’s done.”

  A pause, then: “You are aware of the penalties for assisting a wanted man, aren’t you?”

  I concentrated on keeping my voice level, carefully disguising the lick of anger that heated my blood. “I’m aware, fully aware. And in answer to your other question, there was a war so it was hardly the time to be meeting young men, was it? It is very unfair that a brief romance I had when I was eighteen should still be haunting me now. Just because I haven’t happened to marry is not a good enough excuse for all these gossiping idiots to still go on about it: I don’t still have feelings for him. In fact, I don’t think about him at all.”

  “Good,” John said flatly. “He didn’t deserve you then, and he most certainly doesn’t now. He always was a smug, sanctimonious b—…sorry … and I’m glad, yes, glad that he’s finally come unstuck. Serves him right, the jumped-up little arse.”

  There must have been something in my expression because John suddenly said, “Poor Ellie, he really did hurt you, didn’t he?”

  This unexpected sympathy left me feeling absurdly uncomfortable. It was one of those instances when I wished profoundly that he did not know me quite so well. Our friendship didn’t usually extend to a discussion of such things and he must have been truly committed to his hunt to have dared mention it now. I never talked about the past, even to John.