Land Girls: The Homecoming

by Roland Moore

  Lady Hoxley’s smile broadened when she realised Connie was with Henry. At first, the marriage had amused Ellen Hoxley – never believing it would last. The mouthy alley cat and the reserved vicar. But here they were, one month on, seemingly in love and talking in hushed tones to each other. Ellen assumed the pair were sharing sweet nothings and had no idea they were discussing how to engineer a theft of medicine from the hospital.

  “Oh, how lovely to see you, Reverend. Mrs Jameson,” Lady Hoxley said.

  “Afternoon,” Connie said, wondering whether a curtsy was in order, but wisely decided against it.

  “What brings you here?”

  “I had a spare hour, Lady Hoxley, so I thought I’d see if any of the patients were in need of spiritual guidance,” Henry said, his lie impressing his wife. She never knew he was capable! He flashed Connie a look that showed his own contempt for how far he’d been forced to fall.

  “Of course.” Lady Hoxley turned with a questioning look to Connie, and Henry answered quickly.

  “We thought the servicemen might appreciate a song.” He smiled winningly.

  “Yeah, that,” Connie said.

  Ellen Hoxley thought it sounded like a fabulous idea. She knew that Connie and Henry had met when Farmer Finch had tried to organise some concerts, having recognised Connie’s extraordinary singing voice. Henry was drafted in as a last-minute piano player to accompany her. And the unlikely duo hit it off. Lady Hoxley bid them good day and went on out into the driveway to admonish the cigarette-tossing Americans.

  “Excuse me, it seems you have mistaken my gravel for a gigantic ashtray.”

  Connie and Henry used this distraction to dart inside the house. Henry whispered that he was unhappy about having to lie and deeply unhappy about stealing.

  “How many commandments do you want me to break?”

  “I’m the one doing the stealing.”

  Connie motioned for them to head to the East Wing. Two nurses were sorting bedding into piles in the corridor. A doctor moved quickly past in the other direction. Connie saw the medicine room. It was a small room no larger than ten feet square. Lord Hoxley had used it for storing his guns but now, in a twist of irony, it was used for life-saving medicines.

  As Henry scanned the corridor and tried to block people’s view, Connie turned the handle.

  But it was locked.

  “This day gets better and better,” Connie muttered.

  “Who has the key?” Henry whispered, desperate to get this ordeal over with.

  At that moment, Dr Richard Channing appeared around the corner, jingling a key fob in his hands. He threw them a querying look and then opened the door to the stock room and went inside.

  “There’s your answer,” Connie replied under her breath.

  Dr Channing was in his early forties and his charm and easy manner had made him a hit with everyone at Hoxley Manor. Especially Lady Hoxley. But, like Iris, Connie was wary of him. But it wasn’t because he made her feel dim. Perhaps it was her instinct for trouble or just the fact that some people just don’t get on, but Connie felt a deep unease around him. She’d heard how he had been a hero. He’d actually saved Lady Hoxley’s life when a collaborator had caught her in the stables and was about to stab her. Channing had shot the man dead – and there was much chatter among the Land Girls about how fortuitous his intervention had been. Lady Hoxley was eternally grateful for this, although she kept her joy in check, and as befitted a woman of social standing, she simply allowed Channing to move from the cramped servants’ quarters downstairs to one of the larger bedrooms upstairs. But later, Connie had wondered how he’d known that Lady Hoxley was in trouble. Why was he even in the stables with a gun?

  Connie couldn’t worry about that now. She had a key to obtain. And a violent ex-boyfriend to oust.

  Dr Channing came out from the stockroom with a bottle of pills. As he locked the door, he nodded hellos to Henry and Connie. “Aircraft Gunner Arthur Tallow is in bed fourteen. He wants to make his peace with God,” Channing said.

  “Of course.” Henry nodded, taking the invitation. With a quick look to Connie, he moved off down the corridor, bracing himself to witness another man’s dying moments.

  Dr Channing considered Connie for a moment, who was looking somewhat forlornly at her disappearing husband.

  “You’re not on shift today, are you, Mrs Jameson?”

  “No. I was feeling ill earlier but I’m all right now.”

  “Good. All right enough to empty some bed pans?”

  “Lovely.” Connie grimaced.

  Dr Channing smiled charismatically, pocketed the keys in his white coat and marched off back to his duties.

  Connie glanced momentarily at the locked door. And then she followed him. How was she going to get those keys?

  Sometime later, Connie was washing some metal bed pans in hot water in the auxiliary kitchen – a large, unmodernised room, which was only usually used when a large number of guests had to be catered for at Hoxley Manor. Its days of such parties had faded into memory as the war and rationing had taken hold. And then, until the secondment of the Manor as a military hospital, it had fallen into disuse. Like a lot of Hoxley Manor.

  Connie finished her work. Joyce Fisher entered, dressed in her Land Army uniform.

  “You feeling brighter?”

  “Yeah. Thought I’d do my bit.”

  “You missed an exciting day.” Joyce smiled, removing her boots.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, some brilliant manure today.” Joyce laughed. Connie stood by and idly chatted while Joyce stripped from her muddy uniform and put on a nurse’s uniform. Connie was still wracking her brain as to how to get the keys from Dr Channing. Could she pick-pocket him? She’d only pick-pocketed two people before, both in the hustle and bustle of Oxford Street when she was about fifteen. One of the victims – a large middle-aged woman in a big fur coat – had been an easy target, her cavernous coat pockets easily accommodating a lithe girl’s hand. But the second victim, a bean-pole-thin businessman, hadn’t given up his assets so easily. He’d felt Connie’s hand in his pocket and nearly managed to grab her wrist. Connie had been forced to run for it as the man called for the police and gave chase. Luckily, she’d lost him at Oxford Circus, and empty-handed had pledged never to try pick-pocketing again.

  But could she get away with it one final time?

  Connie felt her heart lurching. It wasn’t from nervousness, but from a sick feeling that she was going back to her old ways. A virtuous and lovely man had trusted her and loved her enough to marry her. And now she hadn’t just dragged him through the wringer once, but twice. And the ordeal wasn’t over yet. Would she be as lucky as she was with Danny in getting rid of Vince? And even if Vince went tomorrow, what damage had been done to her marriage? Did she even deserve his love now? Connie forced herself to put the thoughts out of her head. She had a more immediate problem.

  The pockets on a white coat were large and baggy. It should be easy: one quick and well-timed delve and she could have the keys in her hand. There were no hustle and bustle distractions of Oxford Street. What had Vince termed it? Misdirection. Connie knew it would be even easier if Henry was around to cause a distraction. However, with Henry tied up, Connie realised she’d have to do it alone.

  “Right. That’s me ready,” Joyce said, smoothing down her uniform. “First job, make Dr Channing a cup of tea.”

  Connie’s ears pricked up at this, a plan forming quickly in her head. “Oh, I can do that.”

  “But, no disrespect, your tea isn’t all that good, is it?” Joyce said as tactfully as she could manage. But the wincing, lemon-sucking expression she pulled was anything but subtle.

  “Finch likes it.”

  “Finch likes everything.”

  “All right. You make it and I’ll deliver it. Yeah?” Connie said.

  “Why?”

  Connie thought fast. Her old skills of thinking on her feet and lying were, somewhat worryingly, coming back to
her all too easily. Like a cat knowing to land on its feet the right way up.

  “I’m in his bad books for being off ill. Tea will smooth it over.”

  Joyce shrugged okay and Connie waited for her to make a pot of tea. While it was brewing, Joyce joked that she was sure Connie could handle it from here and she went off to find some chores to do.

  Alone in the kitchen, Connie poured some of the tea into a cup. She added a splash of milk and then filled up the rest of the cup with cold water from the tap. She wondered if she could get away with what she was planning.

  She took the cup and saucer and marched down the corridor to find the doctor. He was standing by a desk in the small ward consulting some notes. He nodded thanks to Connie and told her to leave the tea on his desk.

  This was the moment. Do or die.

  Connie got close to him as she moved the cup and saucer towards the desk. At the last moment, she upended it down his front. Channing threw his arms up in alarm.

  “Oh, so sorry!” Connie screamed.

  “You stupid little-” Channing stopped himself, trying to regain his composure as he tried to brush himself down. His shirt and tie were soaked, but also the left panel of his white coat.

  “I’m really sorry. Let me help you.”

  “Please just – leave it.” Channing fumed, throwing off his white coat like an angry snake shedding its skin. “I’ll have to change.” He thundered off down the corridor.

  Connie breathed a sigh of relief. Leaving the coat had been an unexpected bonus. Checking no one was watching, she picked it up. Surreptitiously, she removed the fob of keys from the pocket as she folded it up. Once she would have felt elated at this victory, adrenaline coursing through her veins. But now she just felt a resigned sense of relief.

  Part one of the mission had been accomplished.

  As she moved off down the corridor, she stopped when she caught a glimpse of Henry. He was standing by a bedside in a private room. The occupant of the bed had a badly burnt face and was motionless as Henry talked to him.

  “God will be waiting to welcome you,” Henry said softly. “All this pain and the suffering will be gone.”

  “My wife’s there,” the man murmured.

  “Yes, you’ll see her again.”

  Connie felt close to tears. How could Henry do this job? His warmth and compassion for others took her breath away. It only made her feel more wretched and worthless. She didn’t deserve him.

  Connie soon reached the locked room. Checking no one was around, she put the key in the lock and entered the room. Closing it behind her, she scanned the boxes and bottles on the shelves, her eyes glazing in panic as she tried to quickly find what she was looking for. All the names of the medicines looked like impenetrable hieroglyphics. This was the most dangerous part of her plan. If she was caught now, it would be very difficult to think up a good enough lie to avoid suspicion. Connie glanced at a shelf just above her shoulders. Tyrothricin! Three bottles side by side. She pocketed one and turned to leave the room. Turning the handle slowly, Connie opened the door. No one was in the corridor. She hastily emerged, closed the door and locked it. She ran back to the small ward and reached it at the same time as Dr Richard Channing returned with a new white coat.

  “Where have you been?” he asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

  “Put your whites in the wash,” Connie said with a smile. She handed back the fob of keys. “Found these in the pocket.”

  Channing took them, nodding his thanks. He pulled the new white coat over his arms and returned to his notes.

  “I’ll be off, then,” Connie said. But Channing didn’t look up.

  Seamless.

  Vince’s cracked lips opened and he sucked in a pill. Connie told him that he should take four of them a day and that they should fight off the infection.

  “I feel bloody dreadful,” Vince croaked.

  “You’ve got to rest.”

  “You always knew what was best for me, Con.” He smiled, closing his eyes.

  Connie glanced at the gun on the bedside table with its monogrammed handle. She wanted to ask about Amos Ackley and whether they were in danger now. But she knew that Vince wasn’t in any condition to talk. She guessed that she could probably grab the gun and force Vince out of the house, but she needed to know what danger she and Henry faced first. Would Amos be on his way? She couldn’t risk not knowing the answer. So, with some regret, she put thoughts of grabbing the gun out of her head.

  She pulled his curtains shut and encouraged Vince to change into pyjamas. Bringing a fresh pair of Henry’s night clothes, she turned her back as Vince stumbled and fumbled his way into them. He was straining with the effort of coordinating his limbs. The buttons didn’t fasten as his chest was bigger than Henry’s; the trousers looked like sausage skins that might burst at the seams at any moment, but finally he was back in bed, the exertion having worn him out. Connie tucked him up and left some water and the Tyrothricin on the side.

  She wondered again about the girl. The one on Barnes Common.

  Forcing the thoughts from her head, Connie left the room.

  Chapter 9

  During the next few days things took on a queasy normality in the vicarage as the occupants settled into some kind of routine with one another. Vince remained in his room, the ill patient sleeping most of the day. Connie would leave a stack of sandwiches for him as she left for work early in the morning. Henry would busy himself with as much parish business as he could to stay out of the house for as long as possible each day. With Vince laid up, it was certainly easier for Connie to believe he wasn’t as much of an intrusion into their lives. And at night, Connie would persist in trying to break the wall of silence that surrounded Henry. But it seemed as if he’d withdrawn deep into himself, with only the occasional flicker of resentment coming through from time to time. She didn’t know how to reach him; she didn’t know the words that might magically unlock his anguish. She didn’t know what he was thinking; an unreachable island. So Connie busied herself with something tangible, something that she could focus on and perhaps change. Getting Vince out of her house.

  But that was the problem. Vince didn’t seem to be getting any better. He would lie in bed, sallow-faced and beaded with sweat, red-eyed, tossing and turning in small bouts of snatched sleep. When Henry was out, Connie would go to his room. She felt as though she was betraying her husband in some way, but on the other hand it felt that he had already emotionally left their marriage. She was so confused, with no idea how to make things right. But she knew it would help if Vince was gone. So she’d sit with him and talk, in the hope that the memories would help him recover in some way.

  “You remember that steak we had in Southend?” Connie waited for a reply that didn’t come. “You got so angry that it was red all on the inside, didn’t you? Practically raw, you said, eh?”

  Vince might offer a grunt in recognition to these memories. Sometimes a strained smile.

  Connie wasn’t sure if it was doing any good, but she knew he seemed to like it. When she had tried to leave after a few minutes one day, he’d grabbed her hand and indicated for her to stay. He wanted some more stories; tales from the good old days. Connie found herself looking at his hand on hers. His grip was clammy, but it was a soft gesture for once. Maybe he didn’t have the strength to be more forceful. And she realised that she didn’t want him to move his hand away. She sat carefully, so as not to dislodge its fragile grip on hers. Why was she doing that? Was it for his benefit to make him feel better? Suddenly, seeing the picture of Jesus on the wall, she felt a rush of guilt and moved her hand away as if his was a hot coal. His arm slumped like a streamer down the side of the bed, but he didn’t seem to register the rejection.

  But that wasn’t the only time Connie found herself behaving oddly around him. Once when Connie was sure he was asleep, she found herself talking like she hadn’t before. A chance to have an audience. A confessional, perhaps.

  “Do you think he hates me?�
� she whispered, not wanting or expecting an answer. “He hasn’t spoken to me since you got here, not really, not properly. He’ll ask if I want a cup of tea. Or what time I’m going to the farm. But we never talk about nothing that matters.” She sighed sadly. “We used to talk before. I’m sure we did.”

  Vince had murmured, a waking beast. So Connie clammed up. Back to business, she put a new flannel on his forehead and left the room, regretting her candour. What if he’d heard? Oh, what did it matter? The whole thing was a mess. Her life was falling apart and she had no idea how to put it together again.

  With Vince seemingly getting worse, finally, Connie realised that she would have to ask for professional help. Henry taciturnly urged her not to mention it to Vince. Connie set off to get some advice from Dr Wally Morgan, the town doctor. His consulting room was in the top room above the town hall, and a winding set of narrow wooden stairs snaked to a dingy waiting room at the top. When Connie got there, she realised that Dr Morgan was already with a patient, so she sat down next to a large unhealthy-looking pot plant that was starved of both water and light and flipped through a copy of Picturegoer magazine while she waited. It was an old copy with Dorothy Lamour on the cover, but it gave Connie a few moments distraction. She wondered how many people had thumbed through the magazine. People she knew. Esther might have taken note of the fashions, wondering if she was too old for some of the racier dresses. Iris might have excitedly looked at the showbiz glamour and wished it was her life. Mrs Gulliver probably wouldn’t even have picked it up: unwilling to see pictures of the harlots inside. Connie closed the magazine just as an elderly woman emerged from the consulting room. She, like a lot of elderly woman in Helmstead, gave Connie a little scowl of disapproval and went on her way.

  Dr Wally Morgan appeared in the consulting-room doorway. He was a small Welsh man in his late fifties with rheumy eyes and a complexion that spoke loudly of his drinking habits, complete with a large red nose and rosy cheeks. He always looked as though he’d been poured into his clothes, usually a scruffy tweed suit and a tie at half mast. There were rumours in the village that, once upon a time, Wally Morgan had been a doctor with a prestigious practice in Cardiff. But if that was true, those days were long forgotten now.