A Christmas Wish for the Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  He lay motionless, longing to be safe at home with his mother and father but desperate that they’d think he’d let them down. We have to be brave. Don’t be a cry-baby … Mummy and Daddy wouldn’t like it – these were the messages that ran ceaselessly through his head; in his mother’s voice and in Judith’s too. But he would never go back to the vicarage. He would stay outside and freeze rather than be dragged back there.

  Alan had seized his chance when the house was empty. Mr Rigg had gone to the church hall at the start of the Christmas dance. Alan had watched him from his bedroom window.

  ‘Don’t move from that bed,’ his tormentor had warned before he left.

  The backs of Alan’s thighs and his backside stung from where the cane had landed. Six whips through the air – one, two, three stinging strokes because Mr Rigg had caught him hiding his leftover crusts in his trouser pocket. God saw it too – he punished ungrateful boys. Mr Rigg’s face had turned red as he’d told him this. He’d shouted and pushed him face-down on to his bed. Four, five, six whistling lashes on Alan’s bare legs and bottom, then straight into his pyjamas and to bed without even being allowed to go to the toilet or brush his teeth.

  ‘That’s what happens to children who waste perfectly good food,’ Mr Rigg had shouted from the doorway. Spit had come out of his mouth and dribbled down his chin. ‘They go to bed without supper and stay in their room until I tell them they can come out.’

  The door had slammed shut. Alan had lain motionless until the footsteps had faded.

  Then he’d sprung out of bed and run to the window; still the one that overlooked the graveyard because the vicar had ignored the kind Land Girl’s plea for him to be moved to a different room. He’d seen Mr Rigg walk down the vicarage path then got dressed as quick as he could – short trousers, long socks, shirt and jumper. Dry mouth, heart jumping up into his throat, panting. Quick, quick, before he comes back. Along the landing, down the stairs. His coat and scarf from the hook in the hallway, feet into boots. Quick, quick!

  Outside, a strong gust of cold wind had almost lifted him off his feet. Quick through the graveyard; never mind the rows of humped bodies lying under the frozen ground or the half-melted snowdrifts, the crooked gravestones and the white angel staring at him as he fled.

  The wind had buffeted him and the beech trees overhanging the river had creaked and groaned. There’d been happy music coming from inside the church hall – ignore that too and stumble on down the rough riverbank. Pray not to be caught and taken back.

  Then there’d been a night so cold that Alan’s fingers went stiff and he couldn’t feel his toes. An endless night of shivering, scratches and rustles, animals creeping through dead leaves, insects crawling over his skin. He’d found a shed and used rough sacking for a blanket. To the sound of the river whirling and lapping at its banks, he’d curled into a ball and smelt the damp, cold earth, breathed coal dust into his lungs and prayed to an angry God to strike Mr Rigg stone cold dead.

  Captain was waiting impatiently at his stable door when Evelyn arrived at the castle.

  ‘I know I’m late; I’m sorry,’ she muttered as she leaned her bike against the wall then took off her gloves and immediately got to work. ‘First things first.’ She took the empty water bucket from the horse’s stable and filled it at the yard tap. Then she climbed the ladder into the hay loft and filled his net.

  The horse kicked at his door to be let out.

  ‘Steady on; I’m going as fast as I can.’ She led him into the yard and tied him up within reach of both water and feed. Then she went across the yard to fetch a barrow for mucking out. On the way back she noticed that the door to her room was ajar.

  ‘That’s odd; I’m sure I locked it when I left,’ she said out loud. Not that there was anything valuable in there – just clothes and a few personal belongings that no self-respecting burglar would look twice at.

  Evelyn wondered briefly if Colonel Weatherall’s niece had called by with her own set of keys to check that the house and yard were secure. But no; there were no tyre marks and no other sign of her car having been here. So maybe Evelyn hadn’t locked the door after all and it had blown open in last night’s wind.

  ‘I’d better go and shut it, eh, Captain?’

  The horse tugged hay from his net and chewed noisily.

  ‘Hello, Evie.’ Cliff appeared in her doorway. He stood with his hands in his pockets, head to one side.

  ‘Cliff! What are you doing in my room?’

  ‘Waiting for you.’

  ‘Have you been here all night?’

  ‘No. I was at Garthside. I saw you set off on your bike.’

  ‘You’ve got a damned cheek, barging in like that.’ The angry words didn’t convey the sick feeling in her stomach as she stared at him tilting his head at her, no doubt having used the spare key she kept hidden in the hay loft to let himself in.

  He didn’t react. ‘I left the car at the far side of the wood and took a short cut. I want to talk to you; it’s important.’

  ‘And I don’t want to hear it. Get out of my room, Cliff.’

  With his hands still in his pockets, he walked slowly towards her. ‘Oh, Evie, what are we going to do?’

  ‘“We”?’ she echoed. ‘There is no “we”, Cliff.’ She pushed past him and ran inside, slamming then bolting the door behind her. How dare he? What made him think, even for a second, that she would want to hear more lies and excuses? Leaning her back against the door, she tried to catch her breath.

  The room was as she’d left it; nothing had been disturbed. Her dresses hung in the alcove next to the fireplace, her shoes stood in a neat row under them. She opened the top drawer of the pine chest in the corner – everything in its place, not touched by him.

  He hammered his fist on the door. ‘Open up, Evie.’

  ‘Get lost!’ She sat on the bed and gripped the iron frame with both hands.

  Cliff’s face appeared at the window. ‘Let me in, please. Give me a chance to explain.’

  ‘Go away. There’s nothing you can say that would make a scrap of difference.’ Lies, more lies and lame excuses.

  He cupped his hands against the glass so that he could see inside. ‘Just listen to me,’ he pleaded.

  Evelyn sprang up from the bed and rushed to the door. She slid the bolt and opened it. She spoke slowly in words of one syllable. ‘Get this in to your head, Cliff Huby: I do not want to listen! I will not waste one more second on you and your pathetic excuses. I’m here to see to Captain and as soon as I’ve done that, I’m off.’

  He stepped back under the force of her fury. The scarf had come loose around her neck and there was an angry flush at her throat. All her energy seemed concentrated in her flashing green eyes.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘But where will you go?’ he repeated. ‘You can’t stay another night with Brenda; there isn’t room.’

  ‘And I can’t very well stay here, either; not with you prowling around, spying on me.’

  Cliff was one step ahead. ‘I’ll stay away, I promise. Once we’ve had our chat, I’ll leave you in peace. You can live here until the Weatheralls decide what they want to do with the place.’

  ‘And you’ll move out?’

  ‘If you want me to. I’ll stay at Garthside while we sort things out. You can go on working for the Timber Corps.’

  ‘You keep on saying “we”, Cliff.’ As she shook her head in exasperation, her hair swung forward. She pushed it back then secured it with a comb on top of her head.

  ‘I’ll stop,’ he promised. God; didn’t she realize what effect she had when she was angry? How was he expected to keep his hands to himself when she looked like this? He turned away then back again. ‘It was a shock,’ he began slowly, referring to Gladys’s visit without speaking his wife’s name.

  ‘Who for – you or me?’

  ‘Both. It’s three years since I saw her and I honestly, hand on heart, never thought about
her from one week to the next. Her showing up in Shawcross was the last thing I expected.’

  ‘You don’t say.’ Sarcasm was lost on him, but she couldn’t resist.

  ‘And I meant it, Evie: I can file for a divorce. We can still get married.’

  He really thought it was that simple! Evelyn stared at him in stunned silence.

  ‘She did trick me, you know. I was working in town and I came across her in the local pub. She seemed quite happy for it to be a bit of a fling. She was definitely the one who made the first moves. Then before I knew it she was telling me she was having a baby.’

  ‘Stop, Cliff – please!’ Evelyn tried to block out what he was saying by striding across the yard into Captain’s stable, seizing a fork and lifting soiled straw on to the barrow.

  ‘I didn’t even know if it was mine. She said it was and like a fool I believed her. She said we had to get hitched for the sake of the kid. I went along with that, too. You saw her, Evelyn; you could see what she was like.’

  Evelyn stopped, leaning forward with her fork poised over the barrow, and looked him in the eye. ‘That’s what sticks in my craw, Cliff – the way you automatically blame Gladys as if you were the innocent party. Now I don’t know if she deliberately did what she did, but I do know you – your way of treating a woman and making her feel that she’s special.’

  He took his time to reply, looking directly at her as he carefully took the fork from her, wrapped his fingers around her wrist and led her into the yard. ‘All right, and what would you have done?’

  She pulled free. ‘If I’d been you?’

  ‘Yes. You’re me for a minute. You find out a couple of months after you get hitched that there never was any baby and that she – Gladys – has run up debts with the butcher, the baker and candlestick maker; you name it, she owes them money. These men come knocking on your door while she’s out gadding somewhere. No baby and bills up to your eyeballs. You look for an escape route, that’s what.’

  ‘Maybe. But I wouldn’t have kept it all a secret. Why didn’t you at least tell your family what had happened?’

  He jerked his head backwards. ‘What good would that have done? Knowing how old fashioned Dad is, he’d as likely as not have ordered me back to Northgate to “do right” by Gladys. Married is married in his book. And my blabbermouth sister would have had a field day. Without even meaning to, Dotty would have made sure my name was mud up and down the dale. No, ta very much. Anyway, how was I to know that I’d go on and meet someone who would bowl me over the way you did?’

  Evelyn put her hands over her ears. She felt her resistance weaken and began to see new glimmers of understanding. But still, she wasn’t ready to forgive him. ‘Don’t think you can talk your way out of this.’

  ‘I don’t. I know I’ve done wrong.’ For the first time Cliff sounded humble. His head went down and he stared at the ground. ‘All I’m asking is for you to give me another chance.’

  Taking a deep breath, she walked out of the stable and paced the yard, coming to a halt by the gate leading into the lane. Her choice was stark: either she could tell him that he’d hurt her too much and she would never be able to trust him again or she could put her decision on hold. I shouldn’t put it off, she told herself as she leaned on the gate and gazed out at the grey, leafless trees, rotting stumps and tangle of undergrowth. I should break free of Cliff Huby right this minute.

  ‘Evie.’ He’d followed her and put his hand on the gate as if to bar her way. ‘Please.’

  ‘Don’t, Cliff. I need time to think.’

  ‘How much time?’ His voice was low and intense.

  ‘A few days. Let’s get Christmas over with first.’

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  ‘Yes, stay at Garthside.’ She needed her own space. There would be forestry tasks to occupy her and she would have Joyce working alongside her. Hopefully, after a few days her bruised and battered heart would begin to heal. Her thoughts would settle.

  ‘Right you are.’ Cliff gave a small nod then walked back towards his cottage. ‘I’ll pick up a few things and then I’ll be off.’

  Evelyn gave a sigh of relief and watched him until his long, lithe stride took him out of sight. Then she closed her eyes. This kind of love was a trap set to maim but not kill. Her heart quivered, her body shook from head to foot as she pushed through the gate then stumbled blindly into the wood.

  Walter Rigg knew that the boy had a sister in Attercliffe. He’d driven there at first light in the hope that they’d made a joint plan to run away; that the sister had found some way of making the journey to Shawcross then assisted Alan in his overnight escape.

  Rigg had no idea of exactly when and how it had happened. All he knew was that he’d disciplined the boy after his sly behaviour at tea the night before then gone out to oversee events in the church hall and left him alone in the house. He hadn’t looked into his room on his return, simply assuming that Alan was settled for the night. He’d gone to bed himself at ten o’clock and woken eight hours later. It was only then, when he’d gone to wake the boy, he’d discovered that his bed hadn’t been slept in. He’d hurried downstairs and found that his coat and boots were missing. Alan had absconded; vanished without a trace.

  Fuelled by a sense of outrage at the latest evacuee’s ingratitude, Rigg had driven to Attercliffe and at nine o’clock Arnold White had answered the door at Dale End. He’d listened to the red-faced clergyman then, without inviting him to step inside the house, he’d rung the servants’ bell and the girl, Judith, had appeared. She’d burst into tears when she heard that her brother was missing.

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t help you,’ Arnold had said stiffly.

  Donald had come down the stairs, still in his dressing-gown. He’d explained tersely about the family’s recent loss. ‘Now, Mr Rigg, if you don’t mind …’ He’d closed the door in Walter’s face.

  The sister’s sobs had followed Walter to his car.

  The journey wasn’t necessarily wasted, however. It was a mere thirty-minute drive from Attercliffe into Millwood, to Alan’s mother and father’s address in Station Street. As he’d parked by the kerb outside their terraced house then mounted five stone steps to the green front door, Walter had prepared himself to be the bearer of bad tidings. He’d squared his shoulders and cleared his throat then knocked long and hard.

  ‘They’re not in.’ A small, bald man in baggy brown trousers and a collarless white shirt had appeared at the door of number 17. ‘Her sister’s poorly. They’ve gone to look after her for a few days. They’re not due back until after Christmas.’

  Walter had been at a loss. Did the man have the sister’s address? No, not a clue. Did he have the wherewithal for him to write the parents a note? The neighbour had grudgingly produced pencil and paper. Walter had written his telephone number followed by the date and time at the top right-hand corner.

  Dear Mr and Mrs Evans,

  I’m very sorry to have to tell you that Alan has gone missing from the vicarage in Shawcross. Rest assured that I’ll do everything in my power to find him. If I don’t succeed and Alan hasn’t returned by tomorrow morning, I will, of course, inform the billeting officer and he will advise me of the best course of action. Once more, I sincerely apologize and I know that you will join me in praying for your son’s safe return.

  Yours sincerely,

  Walter Rigg.

  His duty done, the note had been posted through the letter box and Walter had set off on the long drive home. Luckily, he’d had the foresight to make arrangements with his fellow vicar in Rixley to send a curate to conduct the morning service.

  At first the motion of the car and the thrum of the engine had helped Rigg to maintain his calm, but as he left the town and drove along the winding lanes, alarm wormed its way to the front of his brain. What would the parents do when they learned of Alan’s disappearance? Would they descend on Shawcross with angry accusations? In which case, he must be
ready to defend himself. He would insist that he’d made every effort to instil discipline in the boy. Alan had been given a room all to himself, been well fed within the limits of the food coupons he’d brought with him and plans were in place to send him to school in Thwaite. Even so, he was sure that tongues would wag and fresh rumours might reach the dean or, worse still, the bishop. He signalled right to take the road out of Burnside and looked in his overhead mirror. His reflection showed flabby cheeks drained of colour and a forehead creased with worry.

  The boy was gone and, not for the first time, Rigg would have to answer to the authorities. There was ice on the road and his car skidded as he took the corner. Whatever the outcome, he would take in no more evacuees, he decided. The children of today lacked both manners and discipline and he was forced to acknowledge that no amount of correction on his part could bring about the desired result.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Charles Nicholls had taken Emma’s advice and kept the service short and to the point. Even so, there was an air of discontent outside the church as the curate made his way back to his car.

  ‘It’s a poor show when your vicar can’t be bothered to turn up on the only day of the week when he has a job to do.’ Fred Williams collared Emma to air his grumbles. ‘Walter Rigg ought to try working the hours I do.’

  ‘It’s not like him, though.’ The vicar’s housekeeper had fretted her way through the hymns and prayers, wondering what on earth could have kept Mr Rigg away.

  ‘My bet is that it’s something to do with Alan.’ Brenda stood with Joyce by the gate, exchanging theories with Geoff and Giles while other members of the congregation hurried away to their Sunday dinners.

  ‘You’re probably right, worse luck.’ Joyce went on to explain their worries about the boy to Giles. ‘He hasn’t settled in with the vicar.’