by Roland Moore
The lighthouse shining brightly now.
“But how did you know her?” Connie asked, cutting him off.
Michael heard the question but screwed up his eyes as if he hadn’t.
“How did you know Margaret’s mother?”
Vera looked towards her husband for guidance. But this time he was staring at the Land Girl – intense, troubled, his mind calculating how to end this situation as quickly as possible. He’d tried being angry, being calm. Nothing was making her leave. He wanted to return to tending his vegetables. The endless hours of relaxation in the garden, bird song, fingernails clogged with simple, honest graft.
“We knew her,” Michael started, hesitantly. “Everyone knew her.”
“She was a woman of – certain values,” Vera clarified, adding to her husband’s foundations.
Connie felt saddened. It was tragic that a woman was known by these euphemisms. “A woman of certain values”: the polite way of saying a woman was fast, someone who slept around without a ring on her finger. Some people had slung that one at her over the years, with some justification. Suddenly Connie felt small, unsure of herself. But she was about to take this – somewhat hazy – explanation at face value and accept it, when she saw the little smile between Vera and Michael. And something told her they were winging this, making it up on the spot. Vera’s smile, fleeting as it was, was seeking approval. It said “did I do well?”
“I don’t believe you,” Connie said, breaking their bubble of relief. The atmosphere immediately got frostier. From polite – if strained – conversation to overstepping the boundaries of acceptable, genteel behaviour. She was calling them liars to their faces. In their own homes. She hoped it might earn her an explanation. The truth.
But instead, it earned her the end of the audience.
“I’d like you to leave,” Michael said, firmly.
He took Connie roughly by the arm and forced her out through the door. Despite being a slight, tall man, his grip was strong.
“Here, get off me!” Connie shouted. “Who do you think you are?”
Vera protested at his strong reaction, but he ignored her, incensed by this nosey girl, who’d dare to call them liars. Even Margaret went against instructions and ran downstairs to see what was happening. The Sawyers stood at the doorway as Connie moved away from the house, risking one final look behind her as she went down the path. Margaret was looking blankly ahead at her, the hope dying in her eyes.
Connie knew she had to go back. But not now. Not today. Somehow she had to find out what was happening in this small cottage. Somehow she had to discover the Sawyers’ secrets.
Luckily, she had an idea how to do it.
It was nearly nine o’clock in the morning, and Connie was already over two hours late for work. But she knew she had to do this before she went to Pasture Farm. She sat on the wall outside the small glass-fronted shop that had been converted to the offices of The Helmstead Herald. ‘Office’ was too grand a word for a single desk at which Roger Curran would sit drafting his stories while the editor sat behind the shop counter, laying out hot metal on a series of plates.
Since she’d been waiting, Connie had watched the village wake up. Mrs Gulliver was doing what looked like door-to-door enquiries – stopping at each house in a terrace and engaging the old women washing their steps in gossip and chit chat. Three members of the Home Guard were practising their marching in the village square. They had one Lee Enfield rifle between them. One man held a broom handle while the other – an ancient figure covered in liver spots – held a particularly evil-looking machete, probably gained during some earlier campaign when the man was young.
Connie smiled in encouragement at their efforts. She knew that Home Guard patrols had been stepped up since the train crash. The members were out most nights, checking barns and outhouses for signs of rough sleepers who might have been involved in the explosion.
From the wall, she could just about see the vicarage at the top of the street. It’s true that she could have gone home to wait there. And perhaps had a nice hot cup of tea. But Henry wasn’t there and she didn’t want to see Vince. Besides, it was nice to just be idle in the fresh air sometimes. She had so little time these days to just look and take in things – working on the land or at the hospital or cooking and cleaning at the vicarage took all her waking hours. Yes, that was all it was. A break in the air. It had nothing to do with her discomfort at the thought of sitting with Vince as he talked about the good old days. No, of course it didn’t.
Sitting on the wall, waiting for an office to open might have bored most people senseless, but for Connie Carter it was almost a holiday. A break from her troubles.
At last, the clock in the village square chimed nine o’clock and Connie spied the portly figure of Roger Curran ambling across the village square. Seeing Connie, he offered a small nod of his head, followed by a frown that said he wondered what she wanted.
“Mrs Jameson? What do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he wheezed.
“I thought you could show me how to make a decent cup of tea, for starters.” Connie smiled.
Oddly flattered, Roger Curran agreed. He fumbled for his keys and opened the office door, ushering her in. Inside, the walls were filled with framed yellowing pages from the newspaper – a seemingly random hodge podge of its history, wilfully ignoring most of the important moments of Helmstead history in favour of a captivating headline or a good photograph. Roger Curran filled the kettle and put it on the stove out at the back of the shop. A few minutes later, he and Connie were sipping tea from mismatched cups. Connie knew she couldn’t hang around – she had to get this finished quickly so she could get to work. “It’s about the girl I saved from the train.”
“A heroic act, Mrs Jameson. And it’s well deserved that my story was picked up by The Daily Mail.”
“Yeah well, that gave me no end of trouble,” Connie said under her breath, thinking how it had led Vince to her door.
“Anyway, what about that girl?” Roger asked, blowing over the top of his tea.
“There’s something odd going on.”
“Odd how?” Roger said. He pulled out a jotter from his desk drawer and licked the end of a pencil. Almost an involuntary response to intrigue.
“I’m not sure it’s a story. But they took her in – the Sawyers took her in – when Margaret’s mum was killed in a bombing raid in London.”
Roger scrawled notes, which looked like some sort of Egyptian hieroglyphics. Connie guessed it was shorthand of some sort.
“Benevolent of them. Were they family friends?” he asked.
“I dunno. They say they knew her. The mum.”
“But – what – you’re not so sure?”
Connie took a deep breath. It was time to put her concerns into words – to crystallise the thoughts that had been troubling her. But the truth was that she didn’t quite know what it was. The Sawyers’ story didn’t seem convincing. How had they known Margaret’s mother well? Had they known her at all, in fact? But what was the alternative? Why would they have taken Margaret in if they hadn’t known the family? It was – as Roger Curran had just said – a benevolent act. An act of kindness taking in a suddenly orphaned child. Connie decided that one thing was troubling her more than anything else. Michael.
“There’s something not right about the man who says he’s her dad,” Connie said at last. “He’s very secretive. She said he doesn’t like strangers coming to the house.”
Roger didn’t think this was much to go on. “A lot of people don’t like strangers. I don’t like strangers.”
“There’s something wrong,” Connie insisted. “He’s covering up something. Call it a woman’s intuition or whatnot, but I know something is wrong.”
Roger shrugged. “What’s his name, then?”
“Michael Sawyer. I don’t know if he’s got a middle name.”
“I didn’t get any answer to my enquiries when I’d traipsed up Jessop’s Cottage. I’d been up there tw
ice since the derailment in the hope of talking to one of the parents. The first time I went, I was sure the house was empty, but the second time, I wondered if I’d seen an upstairs curtain twitch, a man’s face staring briefly out. Might be wrong though.”
“I just think he’s got something to hide. Something which may explain how him and his wife knew Margaret’s real mum,” Connie summed up.
“I’ll look into it.” Roger fixed her with an intent look. “You feel protective of this girl, don’t you? Almost – maternal.” For a moment, she caught a brief glimpse of a talented journalist inside, a burning flame that had been all but extinguished by having to cover endless church fetes and tractor competitions.
The word hit Connie. She had never known her own mother and she had made a silent vow to always show deep love and devotion to any children she might have in the future. And although Margaret wasn’t her daughter, perhaps Connie recognised a fragile soul who needed help and protection. Or perhaps it was just borne of the fact that she had saved the girl’s life and now felt some invisible but strong bond towards her? She wasn’t sure.
Connie got up to leave.
“Well, rest assured, Mrs Jameson, I shall look into Michael Sawyer – and let you know what I find.”
Connie bid him good day and went on her way. As the shop door shut behind her, Roger Curran looked at the cup she’d had. It was still full. So much for making a decent cup of tea, he thought with a smile.
Henry got back to the vicarage. He couldn’t hear Vince – and assumed he might be asleep upstairs. The journey back on the bicycle had been harder than usual – as Henry tried to balance the shotgun across his legs and peddle at the same time. The sight must have been a strange one for any passer-by to witness: a man of God carrying a weapon. Old Mrs Clements had been the only one who saw him. A skeletally thin woman who appeared to be held together by a voluminous coat and hat. She had looked twice at the young vicar, assuming her rheumy eyes were deceiving her. Surely that’s a fishing rod he’s got there?
Henry quietly entered the vicarage and walked straight through the dining room. Vince had left a newspaper sprawled out across the table. He passed through the kitchen with its collection of unwashed crockery and went out into the back garden. He scurried over to the chicken coop – offering a silent prayer that Esther and Gladys wouldn’t make too much noise. Henry pushed the shotgun into the back of the chicken run, covering it over with straw. His heart was pumping so fast, he feared it would rip straight out of his chest. He would leave the gun here and then tonight, when Connie was doing a late shift at Hoxley Manor, Henry would take the gun and he would force Vince Halliday to leave. Yes, that’s what he would do. He crept back into the house and went silently upstairs, assuming that Vince would be sleeping.
But as he peeked into the spare room, he was shocked and wrong-footed.
Because Vince Halliday had gone.
Chapter 12
“There was more in the paper about it,” Joyce said, leaning on her spade as she batted a wasp away from her headscarf.
The women were in the fields: their satisfying lunch of bread and cheese in the farmhouse seemed many hours behind them. Joyce was discussing the latest theories regarding the train crash. The authorities were certain it was a bomb – and although German components were found in the wrecked shrapnel of the device, there was something else among the debris: home-manufactured components. That had suggested that someone had made the bomb with assistance from the Germans. It suggested that a collaborator was involved. And the latest article in The Helmstead Herald, a think-piece by a local historian, suggested that such a collaborator could be right under the noses of decent, patriotic folk.
Folk like Joyce Fisher, who, although not usually prone to gossip, was currently flinging mud in all directions. Connie assumed it stemmed from Joyce being on the train, and having a lucky escape. She was angry about what she’d been through, viewing the event as a stark reminder of what the bombs had done to her family in Coventry. As such, she was keen to find the culprit.
“They said we should report anyone suspicious. Turn them over to the police.” Joyce lowered her voice. “The collaborator could be living on this farm.”
“Really?” Iris said. “Is that possible, Connie?”
“Yeah, Freddie Finch is really Herr Von Bismarck,” Connie said dully. Her mind was on other, more personal, matters.
“I’m telling you, before you and Connie came, there was a girl called Nancy Morrell. We started the same day. She was full of airs and graces. Real la-di-da. And the Home Guard pulled her in for questioning because she was caught writing letters home in Italian.”
“So she was a spy?” Iris asked, scanning the faces of the other girls for some clarification. But it didn’t come. All of them were fairly new arrivals, and besides, the transient nature of being a Land Girl meant that they often moved to different farms. She knew that Joyce had been here the longest. No one else was able to confirm or deny Joyce’s story.
“Well, no, she wasn’t a spy. Not in the end,” Joyce said. “But the point was – she could have been. And the Home Guard suspected her enough to think she might be. So anyone could be a spy. Anyone could have helped those men lay that bomb on the tracks.”
Iris thought it was true enough. But in her heart, she always imagined German spies to be angle-cheeked, dark-eyed men in trench coats. Like in the posters.
But Joyce had a very specific suspect in her thoughts. She felt she knew who it was. Keen not to be overheard, she moved across the furrows of mud to where Connie was standing and indicated that they should move to the trailer that was parked about fifty yards away. When they reached it, Joyce put her spade with the other tools and hoisted herself up onto the platform. She sat facing Connie, a troubled look on her face.
“I’m not one for gossip.”
“I know. You see the good in everyone. It’s maddening,” Connie said.
Joyce returned a tight, if somewhat appreciative smile. “But I think there’s someone here we should be watching.” And she leaned in close, to make certain her words wouldn’t have any chance of being carried by the soft wind to the other girls over the other side of the field.
“Dolores O’Malley,” Joyce said.
“Come off it.”
“Think about it. We know nothing about her.”
“She’s not a spy.”
“How do you know?” Joyce insisted. She picked at some mud on the mound of her thumb, ignoring Connie’s eyes. She knew that on one level her speculation seemed absurd. But it was bugging her. “She’s more closed up than Mrs Garvey’s old wool shop. We’ve found out nothing about her.”
They watched Iris Dawson walking quickly off the field.
“Yeah, but that don’t mean Dolores is a spy.”
“I’m not saying she definitely is. Just that if anyone here needs watching – it’s her.”
And with that, Joyce pushed herself off the trailer and trudged back to the other girls. It was true enough. Connie had seen first hand how difficult, nay impossible, it was to try to get Dolores to say anything about herself. She was a closed book, uninterested in getting close to anyone. But surely that made her stand out? By being the black sheep, Dolores was going to get more attention than someone who fitted in. Someone who laughed with the other girls; shared drunken nights with them. Dolores never went to the dances at Hoxley Manor. She never went to the cinema or out to meet a friend for tea and cake. When she wasn’t working, she sat in her room, watching the sun set through her lace net curtains, reading or writing letters home. Connie wasn’t sure what to think as she picked up a hessian bag of sprouting onions and walked to the edge of the field. She was going to take the bulbs to the other girls for planting. And that other group included Dolores O’Malley. As she trusted Joyce and respected her judgement, Connie resolved to watch her more closely from now on. It might take her mind off everything that was happening at home.
Connie moved through the stable yard, where Finch
’s old carthorse – Nellie – was standing idly in the spring sunshine, languidly batting flies with her tail. She reached Iris Dawson and Dolores O’Malley, who were sorting through onion bulbs – separating the rotten ones from those that might burst forth a new plant, given the right conditions. They looked up, necks stiff from bending over their sieves.
“Brought you some more,” Connie said, placing the sack down on the stone.
“Oh thanks! Dolores was down to the last dozen. Thought we had the end in sight,” Iris moaned.
“The end is never in sight with farming. You should know that,” Connie said with a smile, sitting down and taking some of the bulbs out of the sack for sorting. She looked at Dolores, who had her head down, examining a sprouting onion. “Alright, Dor?”
“Yes, thank you, I am,” Dolores said, looking up briefly.
“What you been doing, then?” Connie asked.
Iris shook her head in a now-isn’t-the-time kind of way. She didn’t have the energy for Connie to engage in another game of finding out about Dolores. As it turned out, Dolores didn’t have the energy either.
“What do you think I’ve been doing?” Dolores snapped.
“All right. Keep your barnet on,” Connie replied.
“We need another sieve if you’re going to sit there,” Dolores said.
Connie took the hint and sauntered over to the tool shed. The sieves were hanging on nails on the back wall of the shed. In front of them were rows of hand tools – spades and forks, mainly – and a pile of scythes. A rusted anvil, hammers, sharpeners, sanders and the spent embers of a small fire were nearby: a repair station for the number of tools that needed new heads or sharpening. Finch found it was a constant job to keep up with the wear and tear wrought by the hard-working girls on his farm.
Connie flicked through the sieves, looking for a serviceable one. Several had gaping holes in the centre: more use as picture frames. She found a reasonable one and plucked it from its nail.
