Land Girls: The Homecoming

by Roland Moore

  “Is it a good time?”

  “I’ve just run down – yes, it’s fine. Just a bit out of puff.”

  “What have you been doing up there?” Mrs Gulliver enquired, raising an eyebrow. What was this she’d stumbled upon?

  Henry thought the real answer would probably prove more shocking than anything the old lady could imagine.

  “Just rather busy,” Henry stammered, realising it was better to just steam roller over it and get rid of her as quickly as possible.

  “I came by to give you this, Reverend.” Mrs Gulliver handed a Henry a small book with embossed gold lettering on the spine. “It’s a book about purity,” she added caustically.

  “Right. Thank you.” Henry realised that the infernal woman had somehow managed to move into his hallway during the conversation. Like an insidious gas, she had wafted past him. So now he had to – as politely as possible – usher her out.

  Mrs Gulliver was just about to leave, when they both heard the noise –

  - THUD THUD.

  She looked at the source of the noise. Had it come from the top of the stairs? One of the bedrooms?

  “Is that Mrs Jameson?”

  “No.”

  “Who is it, then?” And she took a step back into the hallway.

  “Mice.” Managed Henry, adding, “The handyman from the Diocese is upstairs trying to fix some – traps.”

  Mrs Gulliver looked suspiciously at the Reverend. Would a man of the cloth actually lie? She doubted that Henry Jameson had the gumption to tell an untruth.

  But before she could ask any further questions, Henry closed the door. With a sour look of doubt, Mrs Gulliver took her leave. She listened against the wood – paying no heed or feeling no embarrassment to the people passing by – and heard Henry running back up the stairs inside.

  What was going on in the vicarage?

  Chapter 10

  Three days later.

  Frederick Finch was excited at the prospect of an evening playing cards in the Bottle and Glass. He sucked the top off his pint and paid the barman. Sitting at a nearby table, Dr Wally Morgan was trying to shuffle the pack with shaking hands. An impatient-looking Frank Tucker sat watching, keen to take the cards and do it himself. But Wally shooed him away. It was all under control. Three cards spun off under the table and Frank started to chew his lip in frustration.

  “Heh heh, ready, lads?” Finch said, bringing over another round of drinks.

  “By the time he’s shuffled, it’ll be closing time.” Frank winced.

  Wally dipped under the table to collect the errant cards, banging his head in the process. Now, Finch winced – in sympathy.

  “Here, give ‘em to me,” Finch said, taking the pack.

  His thick fingers started to shuffle the pack with a surprising dexterity when he sensed a figure standing near his right shoulder. He looked up into the sour face of Gladys Gulliver. She was frowning. Mind you, he’d have been more unnerved if she was smiling.

  “Heh, the garlic around the entrance must have fallen off!” Finch chuckled.

  “Mock all you like, Frederick Finch. I’m here on a serious matter. Do you think I’d set foot in this hellish place if it wasn’t important?”

  Finch shook his head, sheepishly, feeling suitably reprimanded. The irony – and sadness of the situation was that once, long ago, Finch’s wife and Mrs Gulliver had been good friends. Friends enough to warrant their poles-apart husbands to try to make small talk with each other and try to get on while the women laughed and chatted with an enviable ease. But when Finch lost his wife and then Mrs Gulliver lost her husband – they slowly became more distant and antagonistic. Finch thought – when he cared to examine the matter – that things got worse when Mrs Gulliver threw herself into the Church. It supported her in her loneliest hours and gave her comfort. A string of Parish priests – up to and including Henry Jameson – had given their time to her, indulged her, stopped her feeling so alone. And as the Church became everything to Mrs Gulliver, so the heathen lifestyle of Frederick Finch – a man who thought nothing of sleeping in the Bottle and Glass all night so he wouldn’t have to walk home – grated more and more. Now, from once sharing drinks together with their partners, the two were polar opposites with daggers drawn.

  “What’s so important, then?” Finch sighed. He wanted to get rid of her as quickly as possible so he could relieve Wally and Frank of their money.

  “I think Reverend Jameson is –” She couldn’t finish the sentence, the words stuck in her throat.

  “Is what?” Finch asked. “Isn’t very good at football? Isn’t a dab hand at catching rabbits? Here, Frank, you should have seen him trying to catch one. He was all fingers and –”

  “Mr Finch!” Gladys Gulliver snapped.

  “Oh, sorry,” Finch replied, cowed.

  Frank Tucker threw a “that told you” look to Finch. Wally Morgan’s head poked up from under the table, the Jack of Clubs in his hand. His eyes tried to focus on the thin, angry woman in front of him. For her part, Mrs Gulliver became distracted by the doctor’s sudden appearance. Where had he been all this time? Finch brought her back to the moment:

  “What is Henry doing?”

  Mrs Gulliver craned her neck and lowered her voice. “Incredible as it may seem, I think he’s having relations with someone else.” She lowered her voice even more on the word “relations” so it was barely more than a mouthed shape.

  Finch and Tucker took a moment to process this statement and then they erupted with laughter. This angered Mrs Gulliver, whose hopes of a serious and useful discussion about the matter were fading fast.

  “No, see, that wife of his was out. I knows she was out because I’d seen her leave-”

  “You see everyone leave.”

  “So he wasn’t at home with her. And when I went round, he was all furtive and sweaty.”

  Finch had had enough. The clock above the bar was ticking away his chances of winning other men’s money.

  “Henry isn’t having relations. He’s the last person to carry on like that. He loves Connie.”

  “She’s a beautiful woman,” Wally Morgan slurred. “Who?”

  “The lengths he went to get her-” Finch continued. “He’s the last person to be unfaithful.”

  “Well, I feel wrong suggesting it, of course. He’s the Reverend. A close personal friend,” Mrs Gulliver said. “But I wondered if you’d heard anything. I’m hoping I’m wrong about it.”

  “I’m sure you’re wrong about it, Mrs Gulliver,” Finch said. He threw a look to Frank, indicating for him to deal the cards. Frank obliged and started to deal three hands onto the table. Finch hoped it was the signal that Mrs Gulliver needed.

  “I can see you’re busy,” Mrs Gulliver said, moving towards the door.

  Finch glanced at her troubled face. Fifteen years ago, he could have asked if she fancied staying for a port and lemon – and she would have probably said yes. And they could have chatted while he played cards: platonic friends. Lonely people reaching out to one another. He knew she was isolated, but he also knew that her pride wouldn’t let her soften in front of him. Too many distancing choices had been made by the pair of them ever to have that easy closeness again. The moment passed, somewhat to Finch’s relief. He didn’t offer her a drink and Mrs Gulliver left the pub.

  “Right, show me your money, gentlemen,” Finch said chuckling, turning his attention to the here and now.

  The last three days had been a time in limbo for Connie and Henry. They couldn’t relax and they couldn’t get on with their lives and the wall of silence from Henry was getting more testing for Connie. He barely spoke, choosing to answer questions as quickly as possible. He spent most of his time out of the house. Connie was waiting to see what would happen with Vince.

  Connie pulled the curtains in Vince’s room. The colour in his face was returning and he didn’t have the deathly pale sheen on his skin any more. The alternating intense heat and clamminess on his forehead were also lessening
. Connie went to pick up the empty water glass by his bed, when his eyes slowly opened. He focused on her, eyes clearing. Brighter than before.

  “Feeling better?” Connie asked.

  “A little, yeah.” Vince licked his parched lips.

  “Take another.”

  She opened the bottle and tapped a tablet into the palm of her hand. Vince’s ungainly fingers plucked it from her grasp and popped it between his lips. As he did this, he pulled her hand up to his mouth. Connie was shocked, too shocked to resist, as Vince kissed her fingers. He let go of her hand and she pulled it away, scalded.

  “Thanks, Con,” Vince said, a genuine-looking smile filling his large face.

  “It’s nothing,” Connie replied, eager to get away. She felt uneasy about what he’d done and was annoyed that her face had flushed.

  “You saved my life,” he said, taking her in.

  “I just want you well enough to leave. That’s all,” Connie said, finding her steely resolve once more. His puppy-dog expression unnerved her. She’d seen some of the injured servicemen falling for their nurses. It was a known syndrome, or something. The last thing she wanted was Vince falling for her. No, she just wanted him to get well so he could leave. So she could patch things up with Henry before it was too late.

  She left the room. But rather than getting angry at her words, Vince smiled to himself. A look of silent satisfaction. He’d seen how her cheeks had flushed when he kissed her fingers. She couldn’t hide that reaction or cover it up. Vince thought he might still have a connection with Connie, something primal, linked to their shared past of highs and lows. Here with Henry – what sort of man was he? A stuffed shirt. He wasn’t a man, was he? Scared of his own shadow and lost in books about a make-believe God. Pah! With Henry there was no excitement. He’d not heard them make love – despite their room being next to his – since he’d arrived. Maybe they didn’t sleep together? Vince didn’t know for sure. Even if they did, would such a bookworm be able to satisfy his Connie? But he’d bet every penny he had that Connie’s life didn’t have any excitement or danger in it now.

  And who knows, maybe she missed that. Yeah, maybe she needed some excitement again.

  Michael Sawyer sat in front of the fire in his little cottage cleaning a piston. It had come from his garden pump, an ancient device that had seen better days. Michael hoped it might last one more summer. But parts were hard to come by, what with the war, so he had to make do and mend. Vera Sawyer sat nearby, knitting a jumper for him, her eyes growing heavy from the heat of the fire. Margaret was in her room. The sobbing had stopped about thirty minutes ago and Vera thought the child had gone into a fitful sleep. Michael couldn’t understand why the child was always crying. She didn’t seem to respond to the simplest discipline and she invited a lot of the trouble herself with her argumentative attitude. They had sent her to bed with no supper after she argued about taking part in an event at school. The teacher had wanted the pupils to bring something from home which meant something to them – with the view to discussing the items and learning about one another. Margaret had asked if she could take in something of Michael or Vera’s. For her part, Margaret thought she was being nice, embracing them as the surrogate parents they had become. Showing thanks for them taking her in after her mother died. But Michael had flatly refused. “I don’t want them nosing into our business!”

  Margaret was genuinely surprised by this attitude as she thought he would welcome her gesture.

  “Your father’s right,” Vera admonished. Whether she agreed or not, it was important to back him up, as she always did.

  “But everyone is bringing something. Even the evacuee kids that haven’t got things,” Margaret protested. She had seen some of those children making up things to feel better about their lives. At least Margaret never did that.

  “Will you stop answering me back!” Michael roared, his voice tremulous with rage. For the second time in a few seconds, Margaret was surprised by the over reaction. She cowered away, apologising and feeling hot tears welling in her eyes. She scurried to the stairs. To the place. But the penalty this time would be worse than the cupboard.

  “Go to bed! No supper! Get out!” Michael screamed. Vera calmed her husband and encouraged him to sit down. She gave him a cup of tea, but his hands were shaking so much it tidal-waved into the saucer.

  Margaret went slowly to her room. She didn’t realise that things were soon to get much worse.

  As Michael finished mending the piston, his wife watched him, pleased that he had calmed down. He had some oil on his hands from the components, so Vera offered to get some newspaper to wrap the parts for him. She handed him a copy of The Daily Mail and he opened it out on the floor, placing the oily piston in the centre of the spread. He couldn’t believe it. There, in black and white was a photograph of Margaret with Connie Carter.

  Michael couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing at first.

  Vera was equally confused. How could this be? She knew a reporter had asked the girl some questions. Vera was being treated for cuts and bruises at the time and didn’t see whether a photograph was taken.

  “It’s got her name,” Michael stammered. “It says where she lives. Oh God.”

  He was breathing heavily now, anger building.

  “It’ll be all right,” Vera said. “It’s dated – last week. And nobody’s come for you, have they?”

  “You don’t know that. They might have wheels in motion, I don’t know.”

  “They haven’t come,” Vera stated firmly, as if calming a child.

  But she couldn’t calm him. “Get her now,” Michael shouted, his brow suddenly beaded with sweat, his eyes wide and scared.

  From upstairs, Margaret was listening against her open bedroom door. Her blood had run cold. It was catastrophic that they knew about the story. From their tone, Margaret knew that this would be the darkest night of her life if she didn’t escape as quickly as she could. She had to act fast. She closed her door, firmly but quietly, and slipped the bolt across it. Then she went to her bed and removed the small suitcase from underneath it, filling it with anything that meant anything to her – her diary, the cutting of her and Connie, her favourite dress (the one she had arrived in).

  BANG BANG BANG!

  Furious knocking at the door, the wood shaking on its hinges.

  “Open this door right now!” Michael screamed in a voice almost as high-pitched as Vera’s.

  Margaret was terrified. What could she do? She’d hoped to have been able to take her case and run for it, but there was no way she’d get past them now.

  “It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t say nothing,” Margaret said.

  A softer voice – seemingly calm, but somehow more terrifying. “It’s all right. We just want to talk.” It was Vera. Margaret could almost sense her looking at her husband with a pleading look of “Let me try”.

  Margaret looked around. The only way out was the small window. She pulled open the curtains and unlatched the window. The cool night breeze nearly took her breath away. She couldn’t see a thing below the window, but she knew there were box bushes there in the front garden. She hoped they might break her fall.

  “Come on, love.” Vera again.

  She never called her love. That was doubly chilling.

  “I told you we should never have taken her in.” Michael’s voice. Almost a sobbing cry of regret.

  He banged on the door again.

  So with one final look behind her at the strange prison she’d known for three years, Margaret Sawyer jumped out of the window with her suitcase. Her foot caught the drainpipe and spun her into a head-first dive. Crashing into the box hedge below, she felt the scratches of the foliage as it tore at her face, her chest winded from the impact. She struggled not to make a sound as she picked up her case and started to run, dreading looking behind her in case they were at the window. Or worse still, coming out of the front door.

  Her heart pumping in her chest, Margaret bounded over the small picket
fence that surrounded the front garden and ran off into the night. Some distance behind, she could hear the front door opening and Michael howling into the night:

  “Come back here! Or I’ll kill you!”

  It was incentive enough to keep running and the terrified little girl kept running until her feet were sore and her head was pounding with stress. Where could she go? She had a friend in Branford. Maybe her mother would let her stay for a few days. She slowed down, trying to catch her breath, to control it enough to hear other sounds in the night. Were they still pursuing her? Had they given up? Or were they circling round her? Margaret moved slowly, keeping all her senses alert for danger as she neared a clump of trees. It was so dark that she wasn’t quite sure where she was. Certainly it was some way from Jessop’s Cottage. And then she found a stone wall in front of her. Climbing over it, she was relieved to see Helmstead Village Square. She ran behind the large ornamental well in the centre of the road and sat behind it, trying to get her head straight.

  That night, Connie, feeling the chasm between herself and Henry growing, decided to do something about it. She couldn’t get through to him and whanever she tried to open him up it had no effect. He didn’t want to talk. Instead he sat brooding, scowling at her as if he hated her. Could he hate her? That possibility chilled Connie. This was the love of her life and she thought that she was the love of his life too – despite their differences. Differences that seemed of little importance now.

  They hadn’t spoken properly since Vince arrived. The conversations would be functional and free of the easy chemistry that they’d naturally had when they’d been courting. Connie had tried to get Henry to talk, but he wouldn’t, instead snapping – as much as Henry ever snapped – that he was fine and to leave it. She resigned herself to the fact that he wouldn’t talk in the same carefree way until Vince had gone. She knew they wouldn’t make love again until he had gone either. Connie worried that Henry might leave her or kick her out when this was all over. She resolved to do all she could to stop that happening. But she needed to feel close to him, needed to make him realise that they would get through this awful time.