Foxden Acres (The Dudley Sisters Quartet Book 1)

by Madalyn Morgan

  ‘Like the proverbial bad penny,’ Annabel said, laughing.

  Bess bit her lip, smiled, but said nothing. ‘Welcome home,’ she said to Tom, putting her arm round his waist. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’ The three of them walked towards Mrs Hartley, who was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, crying with happiness. Recovering her manners, Bess said, ‘Welcome, Annabel. Thank you for bringing my brother home.’

  Annabel’s room was on the first floor of the west wing, which meant she was on hand if any of the servicemen needed her. It also meant she wasn’t far away from James’s rooms in his mother’s apartment. For the first time since she’d been back at Foxden, Bess was pleased James was living on the aerodrome.

  As each serviceman arrived, the doctor from Lowarth was called out to check or prescribe medication. A few patients needed dressings to be changed, which the District Nurse attended to on her weekly rounds. Most of the men were suffering from fatigue, shell shock, or pneumonia. Other than rest they only needed painkillers or sleeping tablets, which Annabel administered.

  When servicemen wanted to be on their own, they could stroll through the Park, or go down to the lake where there were only swans and ducks for company. As their health improved, they were encouraged to walk across the fields to Lowarth or to neighbouring villages. And as they grew stronger still, they were given light jobs to do, like feeding the chickens and collecting the eggs. They could work in the walled flower garden, or tend the vegetables in Mrs Hartley’s kitchen garden. There was always something for the men to do – when they were ready.

  When he was first home, Tom went up to the Hall every morning. He exercised the horses with Mr Porter, groomed and fed them, and then Mrs Hartley would give him breakfast. Tom had known Mrs Hartley since he was a child. He would make her laugh by taking her in his arms and dancing with her, or singing to her, and she loved it – she loved Tom. He spent hours in the west wing with Annabel, lifting patients in and out of bed, helping with their physiotherapy, pushing them round the grounds in their wheelchairs, reading to them or playing cards. And if he wasn’t in the west wing he was servicing the Estate’s machinery, or Annabel’s car. Bess thought he was pushing himself too hard by taking on so much.

  ‘Where’s Tom today?’ Mr Porter asked Bess at breakfast.

  ‘I thought he was with you.’

  ‘He’s probably nursing a hangover,’ Laura said. ‘Polly and I saw him at the Crown last night with some of the village lads.’

  Polly laughed. ‘He must have had a few by the time we got there.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Bess felt her hackles rise. She would defend Tom whatever.

  ‘He didn’t seem to know us when we first arrived.’

  ‘That’s right, Bess,’ Laura said, ‘and when we pulled his leg about it he overreacted.’

  ‘What do you mean? Did he get angry?’ Bess asked.

  ‘No. He looked as if he was going to, but then he laughed and introduced us to his friends.’

  ‘Even those we already knew,’ Polly said.

  ‘Then he bought everyone a drink to welcome us to the Crown. He’d forgotten we’d been there before.’

  ‘I hope he didn’t have too much to drink,’ Bess said.

  Mrs Hartley put her hand on Bess’s shoulder. ‘No need to worry about Tom,’ she said. ‘He’d know when he’d had enough.’

  Bess did worry about Tom. The last time she saw him he looked pale and tired, and when she asked him if he was all right he shouted at her, saying he was fine, he just hadn’t slept. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days either, and he’d let Mr Porter down by not turning up to exercise the horses. The first time Bess rode in his place, but the second time she was busy on the Estate and Mr Porter had to ride Sultan and lead Sable. Tom seemed to have lost interest in the horses, the west wing, even Annabel.

  ‘What’s wrong, Tom?’ Bess asked when she called to see her mother and found Tom sitting on the ground next to his car with his head in his hands.

  ‘Nothing a pint of Arthur Hanley’s best won’t put right.’ Tom jumped up and brushed himself down. ‘Got to go, I’m meeting some of the lads at the Crown. Don’t look so worried,’ he said, kissing Bess on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  Bess didn’t see Tom later; she didn’t see him until the next day when he came to the Hall wearing the same clothes he’d been out in the night before. His hair was uncombed, his shirt was grubby and his jacket looked as if it had been hung on a hedge instead of a hanger.

  ‘Tom!’ Bess shouted, as her brother approached the steps to the west wing.

  Tom sauntered over to Bess with his hands in his pockets and a silly grin on his face. ‘I can’t stop, Sis, I promised to help Annabel with the chaps.’

  ‘You’re in no fit state to help anyone,’ Bess said. ‘Go home! I don’t want the lads in the west wing to see you looking like that.’ She didn’t want Annabel Hadleigh to see her brother looking like that. She didn’t want her telling James or his mother that Tom had turned up so dishevelled-- ‘Are you drunk, Tom?’

  ‘Of course I’m not drunk!’ he protested. ‘I was at home last night by nine. I had a blinding headache and I was sweating. Mam thought I was coming down with the flu, but I was fine after a couple of Aspirin. The trouble was, I dropped off in the armchair and when I got to bed, I couldn’t sleep. I’m tired, that’s all. So if you don’t mind,’ he shouted, ‘I’m going to see Annabel!’

  Bess stepped out of the way. She was shocked by her brother’s reaction. He hadn’t lost his temper with her since she was a child. At the risk of making him even angrier, she called after him, ‘Tom, I really think you should go home and get some rest. Come back tomorrow, or this evening, when you’ve had a shave and changed your clothes.’

  Tom stopped and swung round. He looked downcast, not angry. ‘All right, you win,’ he said, but as he turned to leave Annabel came out of the Hall. ‘Annabel ….’

  Annabel ran down the steps. ‘Tom, what’s the matter? You look terrible.’

  ‘He’s got the flu,’ Bess said.

  Tom took a step towards Annabel, tripped, and she caught him.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll take you--’

  ‘Thank you, Annabel,’ Bess interrupted, ‘but I’ll look after my brother.’ Annabel was eager to help and hardworking, but she had a tendency to take over. ‘I’m sure you have enough to do looking after the men in the west wing.’ Bess shot Annabel a sideways look and took Tom firmly by the arm. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’m taking you home.’

  Halfway down the drive, Tom said, ‘She’s a cracker, isn’t she?’

  ‘If you say so, but she’s James Foxden’s cracker, so stay away from her, Tom.’

  ‘Lucky old James.’

  Tom argued he was sober, but Bess could tell he wasn’t. As they approached the front door of their parents’ cottage, their father opened it. ‘Put him to bed, Dad,’ Bess said, shaking her head.

  Her father nodded and put his arm round Tom’s shoulder. ‘Come on, son. Let’s get you upstairs so you can sleep it off.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘There’s a telephone call for you, Bess,’ Mr Porter shouted. ‘He won’t give his name. Just said it was important.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Bess took the receiver. ‘Hello, this is Bess Dudley.’

  ‘Bess, it’s Arthur Hanley, at the Crown here. Would you come and fetch Tommy? He’s in a bad way.’

  ‘Does he need a doctor, Mr Hanley?’

  ‘Not that sort of bad way, Bess. He’s had a few drinks and he’s a bit shaky.’ Arthur Hanley paused. ‘He’s been saying he killed his best mate in Dunkirk, and I’m worried he might harm himself if he’s left on his own.’

  ‘I’ll be with you in ten minutes. Hang onto him until I get there, will you?’

  Within a couple of minutes of Bess telling Mr Porter about the telephone call, they were speeding down the drive to Woodcote in the farm pick-up truck. The Crown was empty except for the landlo
rd, Arthur Hanley, behind the bar and his wife, Annie, who was sitting next to Tom on the opposite side of the room.

  Bess stood at the door and acknowledged Mr Hanley with a smile before speaking to her brother. ‘Hello, Tom. I’ve come to take you home. Mr Porter is going to drive us. Are you ready?’

  Frowning at Mr Porter, Tom stood up. ‘What’s he doing here?’

  Mr Porter started towards his young friend, but Bess put her hand on his shoulder and he stopped.

  ‘He knows!’ Tom cried. His eyes, penetrating and intense, looked from Ernest Porter to Bess and back again. ‘He knows,’ he cried again. ‘He’s always in my dreams. “Go on, lad,” he says, “Get out of here” And I did!’ Tom began to sob. ‘I did. And I left him there to die. I killed the man that made it possible for me to escape. I’m sorry.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Walking over to Tom, Arthur Hanley said, ‘Let Bess take you home, there’s a good lad.’

  Tom nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Arthur.’

  Arthur Hanley put his arm around Tom’s shoulder. ‘No need to be sorry, lad. We can’t imagine what you went through over there.’

  ‘Thank you, Arthur. And thank you, Mrs Hanley, Annie. Thank you,’ he said again, allowing Arthur to guide him across the room.

  Bess put her arms around her brother. It broke her heart to see Tom drunk and confused. He let her hold him for some time and then he pulled away and said, ‘Will you take me home, Sis?’

  Bess made a pot of very strong coffee and poured two cups, adding milk to hers. ‘Drink your coffee, Tom.’ Tom tried, but was violently sick. ‘You’ve poisoned your system with too much alcohol. Here, drink some water instead.’ Tom took several sips of water and was sick again. She encouraged him to drink the black coffee and the water alternately until he stopped being sick and stopped blaming himself for the death of his friend.

  As the alcohol began to leave his system, he began to shiver. His legs twitched, as if they were trying to keep up with a fast beat. Bess put the back of her hand on his forehead. It felt hot and sticky, but his hands were cold, so she fetched a blanket. Folding it double, she put it over his legs and wrapped her arms around him. ‘How are you feeling now?’ she asked when he eventually stopped shivering.

  ‘I don’t feel as sick anymore, or cold, I just feel tired. I expect it’s because I haven’t slept properly since I got back. Every time I close my eyes, I see the pier at Dunkirk going up in flames. I look for my mate Jock but I can’t see him. I can only see bits of dead soldiers: arms and legs floating in the sea. I call for Jock over and over, but he can’t hear me above the screaming.’ Tom lowered his head and shook it gently. ‘I don’t help them, I just scream louder to drown out their screams. I have the same nightmare night after night… I think I’m going mad.’

  Bess held him tight. ‘You’re not going mad, Tom. You’ve experienced something that is so terrible, so horrific, that you can’t cope with it. And unfortunately you’re reliving it in your sleep.’ Bess paused, and when Tom didn’t reply she said, ‘Have you talked to anyone about Dunkirk? What you went through when you escaped?’

  Tom shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Perhaps it would help if you did,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’

  It was three in the morning, but Bess was past being tired. She had decided to stay with Tom all night if necessary. He needed to talk about what had happened in Dunkirk. Exorcise the ghosts, or he’d never be able to get on with his life. There was no guarantee he’d ever get over it, but Bess was determined to do everything in her power to help him try.

  ‘We got the order to retreat on June 1st,’ Tom said suddenly. ‘We’d only been in France a few months.’ He shook his head. ‘It was so bloody unfair.’

  ‘What was unfair?’

  ‘Leaving us behind when the rest of the division retreated. I was put in charge of the men. Jock, a big redheaded Scotsman. His real name was Angus McPherson. Jock was my mate. George Higgins, the youngest of the group who we called Geordie, because he came from Newcastle, and Archie Middleton, a Cockney barrow boy.’ Tom smiled briefly. ‘Archie used to say he could steal your umbrella at one end of Borough Market and sell it back to you at the other.’ He took a shuddering breath and carried on. ‘Our job was to clear the campsite. Destroy all evidence that the British Expeditionary Forces had been there.

  ‘We spread out and slowly walked to the camp’s perimeter, scanning the ground for anything that looked out of place in the woods. Then we turned around and did it again, and again, until we were sure that every piece of paper, cigarette end, or nail clipping had been picked up. Jock and I scored the undergrowth and roughed up the grass with a couple of old forks we’d found in a deserted barn a few miles down the road. Geordie filled in the latrines and Archie ripped the paperwork up – including letters from home. If the Division was captured on the way to Dunkirk they wouldn’t have anything on them that’d tell the Germans who they were or where they’d come from.

  ‘Jock and I found a place to bury what was left of the camp that couldn’t be seen from the road, where the weeds and brambles were dense and the ground was so wet that any roots we disturbed would take hold again quickly. Jock took off his jacket and shirt and began to dig. He was a big bloke, and strong. He threw the spade at the ground, using his weight to force it into the earth until he heard the roots of the weeds and brambles snap. Then he lifted the spade and did the same again, and again, until he had loosened several square feet of earth and vegetation. He was sweating. It was only half past seven in the morning, but it was already hot.

  ‘I lifted the patches of sodden earth, making sure the roots stayed attached, and laid them to one side. Then I left Jock to dig a hole and went to find Archie. He was sitting on the ground bawling his eyes out. He said some fella’s mother had written to him saying his wife had been killed in a bombing raid.

  ‘I didn’t know what to say. We’d been ordered not to read anything, but I couldn’t tick him off, he was upset enough. “Come on, mate,” I said, and slung a sack over my shoulder.

  ‘“We should have burned it, it’s not right it rotting, not the letters anyway,” he said.

  ‘“The smoke would alert Gerry. Come on, pick your sack up and let’s get it to Jock.”

  ‘It was like being at a funeral. We upended the sacks into the hole, Jock shovelled soil on top until the hole was full, and I replaced the squares of earth, making sure they fitted as neatly as possible. Then we scattered weeds and nettles on top. One good downpour and any unattached roots would start to grow – and what was beneath them would disintegrate, destroying all evidence that the 48th had been in France.

  ‘We took the spade and forks back to the derelict barn and put them back where we’d found them. We had a wash in a nearby river, and set off to walk the hundred or so kilometres to Dunkirk. We stuck to the fields and woods during the day to avoid any rogue gangs of German soldiers. They stalked the main routes to Dunkirk, and used British soldiers as target practice. We did our serious walking at night under cover of darkness.’

  ‘How long did it take to get to Dunkirk?’ Bess asked.

  ‘Three days. We arrived on the fourth exhausted and dehydrated.’ Tom took a sip of water and carried on. ‘In no way were we prepared for what was to come. From the top of the cliff overlooking the beach we saw thousands of British soldiers. Some were crawling along the burning sand. Others were dragging injured comrades up the beach to the dunes to get out of the sun. And some were so badly injured they just lay where they’d fallen, surrounded by dead comrades.’ Tom stopped and caught his breath.

  ‘Do you want to take a break?’ Bess asked.

  ‘No, I’m all right.’ He took another drink of water before carrying on. ‘I knew if we were going to be rescued we needed to be on the beach, and to get there we’d have to go down the cliff. “It’s the only way,” I said. “And we’ll have to move quickly, we’ll stand out like beacons against the white cliff face. If the German planes turn up
before we reach the bottom of the cliff, we’ll be done for.” I looked at the beach below and then back at Jock. “If we’re going, we’ll have to go now.”

  ‘Jock put his arms around Archie and Geordie. ‘“Are we ready, lads?”

  ‘They both nodded. I expect they were too scared to speak.’

  ‘Had any of you had experience of rock climbing?’ Bess asked.

  ‘Yes. Jock had climbed before. He led the descent, sandwiching himself between the two younger lads.’ Tom gave a laugh. ‘Archie and Geordie were only a year younger than me and Jock, but that was what Jock was like. Always putting the needs of the other lads first.’ Tom paused, as if to remember precisely what happened next. ‘There were a lot of jagged rocks sticking out of the cliff, which made it easy to get a foothold but damn near impossible to grip with bare hands. Halfway down the cliff there was a narrow ledge. It was the last open place where we’d be vulnerable before the final drop. One by one we leapt onto the ledge and inched our way along the narrow crevice on our bellies, like lizards.’ Tom put his head in his hands. ‘I’m sorry, Bess.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to stop and take a break, Tom?’

  ‘No. It’s okay.’ Tom took a drink of water and cleared his throat. ‘When we heard the drone of planes approaching, Archie and I counted to three and leapt from the cliff. We stayed where we landed. Me on my back and Archie sprawled across me, face down. Jock and Geordie were still on the ledge. Jock had pulled Geordie to his feet and was saying something. I couldn’t hear what it was, but Geordie looked down at the beach and shook his head. I’ll never forget the look of terror on that boy’s face. “Jump, Jock!” I shouted. “Bring the boy with you. Time’s running out. Jump or you’ll die up there.”

  ‘Jock didn’t hear me – how could he? But he must have heard the planes, because I saw him look up. Geordie looked up too, but he was still shaking his head. Next thing, Jock punched him on the chin and when the lad lost his balance Jock put his arms around him and leapt. They landed at the bottom of the cliff as the yellow noses of two Messerschmitts came over the top and began firing into the ledge we’d been on minutes earlier. Bullets ricocheted off the cliff and landed all around us, sending clouds of sand swirling into the air. I couldn’t see properly. My face was burnt and my mouth was so full of sand I thought I’d choke. I tried breathing through my nose, but it was no good, I still inhaled sand. We lay on that scorching sand for what seemed like hours. Finally, when the shooting had stopped and the planes were gone, we crawled across the beach to Dunkirk’s harbour and the pier.’