by Allie Burns
The Germans nodded, but the women shook their heads. Martha stepped forwards, her arms folded.
‘First of all,’ she said, ‘it’s not safe working alone with those Huns. Second of all, I refuse to work alongside the brothers of men who at this very moment are trying to shell the very soul out of my brother.’
‘Very well,’ Emily said. It had been coming and she was ready for it. ‘You, Olive and Ada can each go and search for the strays. We’re missing three.’ With no rhyme or reason, the sheep would find their way onto neighbouring land. No matter how many gaps in the hedgerows they filled with spiky blackthorn, those sheep would find a way through. Mr Tipton wouldn’t invest in having the hedges made sound, or a fence to keep them in: a sign of his waning interest in the farm and his desire to retire. But they could wander a long way, and always picked the highest spot. ‘You can take Sally to give you a helping hand.’
Emily pointed the way, and the three women traipsed off, Sally at their heels wagging her eager tail.
Emily, Heinrich and the others rounded the flock into a corner of the field and they identified those with a limp. Heinrich took the first, grabbing it around the neck and underneath its belly, and with a heave threw it upside down, hooves in the air.
‘There you go,’ Emily said to Lottie, gesturing that she could work with Heinrich to pare back the hooves and brush them with treacly tar. ‘He won’t bite,’ she whispered in Lottie’s ear. The hint of a smile formed on Heinrich’s lips. ‘Heinrich worked on his family farm as a boy, so he knows all about sheep.’
She paired up Hen with Ernst and the remaining two Germans together. Before she and Otto set to work, she lifted Mr Tipton’s toolbox and led him up to the top field where sat the solitary figure of the abandoned Fordson tractor.
‘You’re a mechanic, I hear?’ she said.
‘You want me to fix?’ he asked with a nod.
‘I want you to do one better than that: I want you to show me how.’
It took no more than twenty minutes for Otto to strip the engine down, and with a series of gestures and explanations – mutter, schraube und keilriemen – most of which she followed, he put everything back together again, climbed up onto the tractor and the engine started first time of asking.
‘I drive it home?’ Otto asked.
She chuckled. It would be a long way home in a Fordson.
‘The farmyard will do, thank you,’ she said with a smile. Mr Tipton’s face would be a picture when he saw the tractor was fixed.
Within five minutes she was back, batting away the metallic green and blue blowflies while she worked. Without Otto, she threw the sheep herself, enjoying the tussle and the struggle and then the sensation when her strength had won out and the animal flipped over.
On the farm, she found time had a habit of passing by quietly like an underground stream. It was so different to time in HopBine House where the clock had marked the dreariness by the second. As she took a breather, Heinrich guided Lottie to grab the sheep by the hooves. The sheep slipped free. Then she lifted him in the air, but couldn’t turn the sheep and had to right it again. Heinrich counted her up and with a heave, and an unnoticed helping hand from Heinrich, they set the beast on its back.
Lottie beamed, pushing back her loose hair. She put a hand on Heinrich’s arm to thank him, and then quickly pulled it away. But Heinrich had noticed and smiled to himself.
Ernst was the most talkative of all of the Germans. It was his voice that travelled through the walls at Perseverance Place. He was telling Hen how he’d refused to fight in the war.
‘I came to England as a boy. I love it here, love the English, and so I said I would not fight.’
Hen’s eyes were wide, though it shouldn’t be such a shock to learn that not every German supported the war.
The sun had risen high, and sweat gathered around her collar and the folds of her smock. Then came panting, the thud of footsteps, and Martha bent to pass through the half-filled gap in the hedgerow.
‘Why are you running in this heat?’ Emily asked, wondering if Martha had seen Otto on the tractor and thought he was making a break for freedom.
‘We found the strays right up on Sunnyside Orchard.’
Emily tutted and wiped her brow with the back of her tar-stained hand. The sheep always had a habit of finding the highest spot on the warmest days.
‘One of them is fine – Olive is herding it back now,’ Martha continued. ‘But two of them are dead.’
Emily and Heinrich exchanged a grimace. He righted the sheep he was working on and the two of them strode with Martha back up the hill.
‘Fly …’ Heinrich began as soon as he set eyes on the corpses. Then he muttered in German, his hand twirling circles in the air while he rolled through his mind for the right words. She urged him to spit it out. Come on! Come on! ‘Strike! It’s flystrike,’ he said eventually.
She put her hand to her mouth. Mr Tipton had told her about flystrike. She’d seen him yell at his men as they set about trying to save his flock before it was wiped out in a matter of hours.
They sprinted back to the main field, hastily checking the others over. Heinrich pointed out the telltale signs; three or four had separated from the others, blowflies buzzing in and out of their wool. One rubbed its body along the hedge while another two were biting their own backs. Emily completed her last check, smothered her nose and retched.
‘It’s flystrike definitely,’ Heinrich said. ‘Eggs will hatch and eat them from the inside out.’ He made a gruesome mime.
A circle of serious faces surrounded her. ‘We need to get to work right away,’ she said, hoping and praying that Ada, Olive and Martha would work with the men like the other women had that morning. ‘There’s no time for nonsense. First drag the matted wool away from the horns and their rears. Heinrich can show you how.’
The sweat ran into her eyes; her toes stuck together inside her boots. ‘You’re all doing a marvellous job,’ she said, wiping her brow with the back of her hand and returning straight to the animal in hand.
When she took a breath, she saw that Martha worked away, solemn-faced, taking instructions from Heinrich as he showed her how to cut around the horns.
It was dark by the time they’d finished digging the graves with pick and shovel and burying the dead. They’d lost five sheep in total. It could have been worse, far worse. But they’d acted quickly, worked together as a team.
When they arrived back at the farmhouse as the trap came along New Lane, Emily’s stomach turned a somersault. She wouldn’t be gloating over the fixed tractor now.
‘You did well today,’ Heinrich said.
‘He’s right,’ said Martha. ‘We could have lost the whole flock if everyone hadn’t done their bit, and you hadn’t listened to him.’ She nodded to Heinrich.
‘It was Heinrich who knew what to do,’ Emily said. Despite wanting to crash onto her bed, energy still zipped through her veins.
‘A good farmer sees a problem and acts quickly. You saved lives today.’ Heinrich patted her on the back.
*
That night she awoke from a dream of a field full of sheep corpses and lay awake with her eyes open, preferring exhaustion than returning to that.
She crept downstairs for a glass of water. The moon was up and framed perfectly in the kitchen window, casting a light over the sink. As she sipped the drink, she closed her eyes and jolted as she was met with the image of a dead sheep. She’d nearly fallen asleep standing up. She was just setting the glass back down in the sink when something on the windowsill glinted in the moonlight. Leaning in for a closer view, she gasped. It couldn’t be. Her hand wouldn’t stay steady enough to pick it up, so she slid it into her palm to measure the weight of it.
It was her wedding ring.
It hadn’t been there before – she’d have seen it. She’d fretted about telling Theo it was lost every day. So how did it get there? It fitted her perfectly, as it always had. She gazed up at the ceiling and shook her head
. She had a pretty good idea.
Chapter Fifteen
April 1917
Theo’s letter finally broke the silence. Nearly a year after they’d married an envelope arrived, postmarked London. It caught her off guard. At first her whole body turned chilled; first John and now it was Theo’s turn. Through the mist of panic she recognised his handwriting and her breath flowed freely again. In an instant, she went from preparing herself for her worst hell, to jumping on the spot. Theo was home. He’d been granted a last-minute leave. He was already in London. He had booked them two nights in Dorset. She was sure he’d said they’d visit his family in Yorkshire, but what did it matter where they were, as long as they were together?
He asked her to meet him in London the next day. She found him under the clock at Charing Cross station. He wore his uniform and a khaki trench coat. His nose was red from the cold. She noticed one or two admiring glances from passers-by in awe of the proud returning hero, and it made her puff up her chest as well.
She burst into a run, her suitcase bashing into her shins, and she charged into his chest. His arms cradled her. She sank into his sandalwood scent and the unfaltering beat of his heart.
‘Steady on, girl.’ He laughed, but she could tell he was flattered.
He had more lines around his eyes. His skin was a sickly grey colour, and his smile didn’t last long, fading faster than the sun on a winter’s evening. His cheekbones stood out more too, his uniform not so snug across his chest. Those broad shoulders were less substantial.
Before she could take much more in, he kissed her. Not the slow, intense caress they’d shared on their wedding day – this time they were tentative, three or four short pecks, and she still kept her eyes open.
Then they were grinning at each other again, and if she just concentrated on his eyes and ignored everything going on around them, the uncertainty, pain and loneliness had evaporated into the London air.
‘You’ve the look of the outdoors about you,’ he said.
That was true. She couldn’t scrub the mud out from under her fingernails, no matter how hard she tried. Freckles had dappled her skin during those few warm days at the start of the month when they’d got excited that spring was on the way.
And then there were the dark bruises under her eyes, where she’d cried for John. The skin around her eyes had become soft and sticky with tears and the next day the hoods of her eyes were swollen. She was changed, for both the good and the bad, and the same would be true of Theo.
‘You’re such a beauty. Such a beauty.’ He tilted his head to admire her.
What could she say to that? He said it often enough in his letters but to have him say it to her face just made her cheeks burn.
‘I think you’re trying to butter me up.’
He gazed at her with a silly, big grin on his face.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Your voice,’ he said. ‘It’s wonderful to hear your voice. Its softness. Its sweetness. The poshn … its Englishness. Divine,’ he said. ‘Just divine.’
How could something as mundane as the noise coming from her mouth please him so much? Perhaps there weren’t many English girls behind the front line.
‘And what about me?’ he asked her.
‘What do you mean?’ She fought for time.
‘Am I how you remember me?’
She played about; put her forefinger to her smiling lips, tilted her head to one side to get a good view of him. The eyes were as brown and warm as she remembered, but they were flatter now, not as alive and dancing as they had been on their wedding day. As well as the lines he had a shallow scar, like a teardrop, to the right of his eyebrow.
‘You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’ He sighed and began to walk away.
‘Theo.’ She dashed after him, grabbing his arm. ‘Of course you look every bit as handsome as the man I married.’ She was overcompensating and he must know it. ‘I was just consigning you to memory …’
He smiled again, and she basked in the warmth of it.
They took a taxi from the station out of Bournemouth, to Durley Chine and their hotel. She got butterflies when they pulled up outside and her gaze rose up to the rows of bedroom windows. Once inside she took a seat beside a baby grand piano, while Theo went to the desk. The crazy, dancing butterflies spiralled out of her stomach and up to her throat.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked her as he returned with their room key. ‘You’re pale.’
‘It must be all the travelling,’ she said. ‘Could we go for a walk once we’ve dropped off our things?’
His head had dipped again, just like in London. ‘Don’t you want to see our room? I’ve booked us the bridal suite.’
She swallowed. He’d hardly asked anything about her work on the land or taken an interest in how she was working with the men and women. Now he wanted her to go straight to the bridal suite.
‘Could we get a breath of fresh air first?’
Whatever happened now would set the tone for the rest of their marriage. It was important that he understood that they might be married, but there was more to her than a fast girl with nothing of interest to say for herself.
He sighed, put a hand in the small of her back, and nudged her back out of the reception.
The hotel backed onto the sandstone cliffs that reared up above the golden sands. They descended on a rope-lined, zigzag path through the ochre rock face. He walked a little way ahead of her, running his hands along the rope handle, while she folded her arms to her chest.
At the bottom, as soon as they stepped away from the protection of the cliffs towards the dappled sands, an icy breeze laced with sea spray stung her face. There wasn’t another soul on that beach in either direction; it was only them. She pulled her coat close. The churned-up sea loomed dangerous and wild.
‘At least it will be romantic to snuggle up with you in our room, Mrs Williams,’ he said.
She took a tiny step away from him. Perhaps if she got it over with and went to bed with him, his mind would be clear enough to see her as something other than a girl waiting to be steered under the blankets. She’d been naive to expect anything else from her honeymoon, she supposed.
‘I hope we don’t have any more snow while we’re here,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘You didn’t write to say whether it snowed in France?’ she asked, tidying a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
‘We had several heavy frosts.’ He raised his voice above the waves. ‘Don’t you remember me saying how ice makes life extra difficult in the trenches?’
She nodded. Had he mentioned the frost in his letters? She couldn’t remember it.
‘Shall we go back to the warm?’ He placed an arm around her shoulders. ‘Our room has a sea view.’
She stared at the crashing waves, not because she was mesmerised, but rather an idea that she couldn’t turn her back on them.
‘I’m ever so hungry now after all of that travelling,’ she answered. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘I’ve booked us a table,’ he told her. ‘For seven o’clock.’
He was a gentleman and waited in the corridor while she changed in their room for dinner.
The room itself was really rather special. Damask curtains and thick pile carpet. As she readied herself and fastened her lace blouse in front of the looking glass, the vast expanse of the double bed loomed in the reflection behind her.
When she was ready and satisfied with her reflection, she waited a moment before calling Theo back a moment to closer inspect the bed with its deep, raspberry pink covers. She pushed her hand down on the mattress. It sunk beneath her fist, to make a dimple in the bedcovers. She let it rise again. She’d a vague idea of what happened on a girl’s wedding night. Just things giggled about at her girls’ private day school. Her mother would never discuss things like that. Her towels had been left on her bed when her monthlies started, wordlessly waiting for her to fathom it out for herself.
The meal was lovely – esp
ecially with the shortages as they were. When he was concentrating on his food, she stole glances at him. There was still so much she didn’t know about this husband of hers. And when they were drinking tea, she asked him about his family.
‘My mother is wonderful. Kind and fun.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘She likes to paint – her favourite subjects are men and women at work. Real work: at the forges, the washboard. She likes real life; she’s not fanciful or romantic. She captures drudgery so very well.’
‘And your father?’
A shadow fell over his face and Emily wished she’d kept him talking about his mother.
‘He doesn’t see the value in her painting.’ He shrugged. ‘Father is a self-made businessman.’
‘My father too,’ she said. ‘And my uncle. Father did have a foot up though: a good education and some investments from my grandfather. So, I suppose self-made isn’t as true of him as it is of my uncle. He really did start from nothing. My grandmother married twice,’ she explained.
‘And did you get along with your father?’
‘Very much. We both loved the countryside, and shared an enjoyment of being outdoors.’
‘My father and I tend not to see eye to eye. He doesn’t believe in giving me any hand-outs.’
Theo’s father didn’t sound like her own had been at all. Baden had wanted the whole village, even the mouse behind the skirting board, to share in his good fortune.
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Theo continued, ‘but he used my mother’s dowry to invest and make his money. He’s not as self-made as he would have everyone believe. He doesn’t respect my mother, either.’
He set his knife and fork together with a clatter. She’d steered the conversation close to the rocks, but she couldn’t pull away yet. There were other things she needed to know.
‘Is that why you decided we’d come here, instead of Wakefield?’
‘You got it in one,’ he said, swigging his brandy. ‘And last time I was home the pubs were empty. All that was left were old men. It was like a ghost town.’
After the meal they went for a nightcap in the hotel lounge. Emily had a stiff brandy and for ten minutes nurtured nothing more than a small tot. Theo had grown quiet. The more he’d drunk, the further he’d seemed to retreat. The gentle, affable man who’d come to dinner faded away.
