Land Girls: The Homecoming

by Roland Moore

  “Well, you won’t have much luck at this time of night, young lady.”

  Twenty minutes later, Connie found herself in the somewhat surreal situation of sitting in an Anderson Shelter with the warden, a man named George Butler, sharing his paste sandwiches with him. They were made by George’s wife and, at that moment in time, they tasted like the best food in the world to the hungry Connie. As she ate, he was telling her how the East End had changed. And between mouthfuls, Connie was telling him about where her orphanage had been.

  “That street’s gone now, I think,” George mulled. “Not by the Germans, it was all pulled down before.”

  “Good riddance,” Connie said. She thought of all the pink-cheeked children there, the older ones getting ready to go to foster homes and first jobs; the younger ones still hopeful that each knock at the main door might be a new family to take them away.

  George Butler had a large number of sandwiches, which perhaps accounted for his well-fed and glowing appearance. He offered Connie another round, but she refused, thanking him anyway. After they had finished, George offered to escort Connie back to her lodgings.

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble. Besides, it’s my job to patrol the streets. It just makes sense if I patrol your way.”

  “You’re a gentleman, George. But I think I came a long way.”

  “I’ll make you a deal, then. I’ll walk halfway with you, check you’re on the right course, and then direct you the rest of the way. How’s that?”

  “Have I told you, you’re a gentleman?”

  George put his sandwiches back in his holdall and strapped it closed. He put his helmet on and they set off. As they walked, Connie noticed that George was whistling nervously.

  “What’s up? Not going to make a pass at me, are you?”

  “What? God no.” George’s cheeks flushed. “I’m happily married. Most of the time.”

  They walked in silence for a bit. Then the whistling started again.

  “What?” Connie asked.

  “It’s silly. I’m supposed to be playing cards at the end of my shift. I always get a bit jumpy about it.”

  “I used to love playing cards. Rummy, pontoon, old maid, you name it,” Connie cackled, not fully registering how troubled George was about it.

  “Well, this is poker. And I need a turn of luck, if I’m honest,” George said, seeming to want to unburden himself. Suddenly this rosy-faced man had a weight of worries on his shoulders. Connie guessed that George’s ARP patrol often ended in a poker game. A game where he usually lost.

  “You play every night?” Connie asked.

  “More than my wife knows,” George admitted. His patrols were supposed to last eight hours, but because of his rheumatism, he would often stop for a late-night drink in a pub before setting off again. The time spent in the pub grew, minutes bleeding into hours. And then he got involved in a poker game. It was just a bit of fun; a half-hour interlude in a cold, rain-soaked night of checking that the lights were out. But it soon became a habit. And now, he confessed, he was in a bit of trouble.

  “I’m twenty pounds down,” George said. “I’ve been shifting money around so my missus doesn’t find out.”

  “Tonight might turn things around for you,” suggested Connie, instantly regretting saying something so glib.

  “Not unless I get a miracle. But thanks,” George said as they reached a crossroads. “That’s your way, then, Miss. You’re about ten minutes from home I’d say. It’s been nice to meet you.”

  And he started to walk away. Connie stood in the rain for a moment. She watched the shuffling figure retreating, the energy of the man seemed to have been sapped by his impending appointment. Connie guessed it was no longer fun for him. She weighed things up. She was ten minutes from Vince’s flat. Gloria would probably still be asleep and wouldn’t miss her for a bit longer. George had been very kind to share his supper with her when she was famished. And the pub might have a telephone.

  The least she could do was help him.

  “Hold up,” Connie called. George turned, surprised. “Where is this pub?”

  “About five minutes. This way.” George indicated, his brow furrowed in confusion.

  “Will they let women play?” Connie said with a confident grin.

  A few minutes later, George Butler ushered Connie into a small East End boozer. Full of dark furniture, wood-panelled walls and yellowing, nicotine-stained wallpaper, it was like most of the other pubs Connie had been in. Small joyless places filled with smoke, flat beer and broken dreams. Two labourers were nursing pints by the bar, their work boots resting on the brass foot rail by their stools. They did comical double-takes at the glamorous woman in the red lipstick who had entered their little yellow world. Was she some alcohol-induced hallucination? An elderly couple sitting at a table stared through Connie and George, seemingly unfazed by the newcomers. For his part, George Butler had swelled with pride at having Connie as his guest. He ushered her towards a small round table near the back of the pub, around which were seated three men. They looked questioningly at George. What was he playing at? Who was this?

  “Your wife’s looking well, George.” A man with thick grey hair laughed. His companions, a wiry man with round glasses and the demeanour of an accountant, and a bull of a man with red hair looked more wary.

  “I met her wandering the streets,” George offered. “Thought I’d bring her in for a warming whisky before she goes on her way.”

  Connie clocked the cards on the table and the small pile of money in the centre.

  “What you playing?” she asked.

  “Poker,” the wiry man said, his eyes boring into her, trying to work out what she wanted. “It’s a card game.”

  “I know what poker is.” Connie gave it back with equal contempt. Then she softened, knowing that she needed to draw these men in and not alienate them. “Not sure I know all the rules, but I’ve seen people play it.”

  “You can watch some more, then.” The wiry man shuffled the pack.

  “Can I play while I warm up?” Connie asked, pulling out a chair and not waiting to be asked. As the men threw looks to one another, Connie sealed the deal by opening her handbag and producing her purse. She placed a crumpled white five-pound note in the middle.

  “Is that enough?” she said, offering a mock exasperated look. The demeanour of the three men changed. Suddenly they leaned forward, more attentive. This was interesting. What had George found here? A gullible woman with money.

  “It’s too much money, Miss,” George said, standing behind her.

  In truth it was too much. Way too much. It was also all the money Connie had left. If she lost it, then she wouldn’t be able to get the train home or buy any food before she returned to Helmstead. But she knew she wanted to repay George for his kindness.

  “Well, if it’s too much, gentlemen, that’s fine,” Connie said, putting out a hand to collect the note. This would be the moment of truth. Had she pushed things too far?

  The grey-haired man shook his head. “No, we can play if you want. Do you know how to play poker?”

  “As I said, I’ve watched people. It’s not the one where you have to get twenty-one, is it? No, don’t tell me. I know, yes. Pairs and two pairs and all that? Got it.” Connie grinned, wondering if they would rumble her. Would they realise she was taking them for a ride? Would they realise she was faking her inexperience? She felt it could go either way, but then the red-headed man snorted, the wiry man laughed. It seemed they took it at face value, not realising they were being hustled. Connie realised that these weren’t experienced gamblers, just men who probably came here as George did: for something to do in the twilight hours. The reason they’d taken George’s money was just because their run of luck had been better. Connie hoped hers would hold for George.

  A small tumbler of whisky was placed beside her. George had bought her a drink. Her head had only just cleared from the ones she’d had with
Glory, but she sipped it for the sake of politeness. George pulled up a chair.

  When the grey-haired man offered to deal him in, George waved it away and declined. He would let his new friend play a few hands. “I’ll take over when she’s had enough.”

  “We’ll try not to take her money too quickly,” the wiry man said, as the red-headed man gave Connie a pile of change for her note. The cards were dealt and Connie didn’t get a decent hand. The second hand was dealt and again Connie had nothing. But this time, she tried to bluff. As she held an ace high, she saw Frederick Finch in her mind’s eye with his advice about the art of bluffing. He thought it was all about conviction, totally believing that you could win with a bad hand. But Connie’s bluff came unstuck when the wiry man pushed her to reveal her hand. He took the money. Suddenly within two hands, Connie had lost two pounds.

  “’Ere I thought there was supposed to be beginner’s luck,” she said, carefully making it sound like she was confused by the proceedings so far. George threw a worried glance in her direction. Connie ignored it. There was still time to turn this around. And sure enough, the next hand looked more promising. Connie had three fours. It was a pretty decent hand. Carefully maintaining the hesitancy and uncertainty she had shown during the previous hands, Connie added a bet to the pot. Now was her reward for betting on rubbish hands previously, because the men assumed she must have another woeful one. All three matched the pound she had put in. Soon another round of betting occurred. George offered a nervous warning to his friends.

  “Come on lads, she don’t know what she’s doing.”

  “This will give me a chance to learn, won’t it?” Connie said breezily, masking the worry underneath.

  With the last of her money thrown into the pot, Connie revealed her three of a kind. To her joy, the other three men folded their hands, their cards obviously weaker than hers. The rules of poker meant that they had no obligation to show them, unless the other player placed a bet and asked them to. The pile of money sat in the middle of the table. Connie played dumb, assuming one of the others had won, before the grey-haired man urged her to take the pot. Suddenly Connie had twelve pounds.

  The next few hands went in Connie’s favour and soon she was sitting with over thirty pounds in front of her. She felt the same adrenaline buzz that she used to get with Vince Halliday, when they were on a scam together. And she berated herself for feeling that. But it felt familiar and easy, though, unlike sorting hymn books for the Sunday sermon. Maybe this was where she belonged. Her thoughts were broken by another round of folded hands and the wiry man tutting his disgust at her latest successful bluff.

  “Now, that’s beginner’s luck.” She laughed and scooped her winnings towards her. George congratulated her. “I’d better be on my way now.” She wanted to ask the landlady if she had a telephone so she could call Henry and tell him she wouldn’t be home tonight. She needed to hear his voice, needed him to say that he missed her, perhaps.

  But the three men weren’t smiling now. The wiry man looked with suspicion at her, his eyes glowing with anger.

  “You can’t just walk away, Miss.”

  “I thought you didn’t have any more money,” Connie replied, halfway out of her seat.

  “You thought wrong,” the man said, producing a small, folded collection of five-pound notes. “One last hand before you go. Double or nothing.”

  Connie felt her face blanch. Where did this man get that kind of money? Why was he carrying that around? Suddenly she worried that he might be a professional card player after all. Maybe he had seen through her hustle act, but just chose to let her have her fun before launching his counter-hustle. This could all end in tears. This was getting out of control.

  “Sit down for one last hand,” the grey-haired man said with a seemingly warm smile. It sounded as if she had a choice, but she doubted that was the reality. Reluctantly, Connie sat down again. She downed the rest of her whisky as George leaned over to her. “You don’t have to do this,” he whispered. “I’m sorry if I’ve got you into trouble.”

  She shook her head. One last hand and then she’d be on her way. She whispered to George, “Promise me something?”

  “Of course,” he whispered back.

  “Whatever happens, I don’t want you picking up these cards again.”

  George nodded. He looked at the table to see that the red-headed man had dealt cards to Connie and the wiry man. Everyone else was staying out of it; the stakes too rich for their blood. The wiry man pushed his notes into the middle of the table. Connie did the same. There would be no additional betting. Now they would just turn over their hands and reveal the winner. Sudden death. The wiry man turned his first card and Connie did the same.

  Nearly an hour later, Connie emerged from the pub. The rain had broken for a moment and the air was cold and fresh on their warm faces. George shuffled out behind her and closed the door. She stopped in her tracks; her head feeling heavy and tired. Was it the cold reality of what she had done hitting her? The adrenaline come-down after the game? Thoughts of how easily she had snapped back into the world of hustling?

  This is where your home is, a small nagging voice chirruped in her head.

  And then she banished it from her mind, as more pressing events took over her attention.

  For his part, George shook his head in disbelief at what had just happened. But as he tried to talk to Connie about it, she was staring at the street, brow furrowed. Her mouth was opening, but she couldn’t quite find the words to speak. Maybe she was troubled by something else entirely.

  George thought he knew what it was.

  The landlady hadn’t had a telephone for Connie to use to call her husband.

  George felt sympathy. He’d hate not to see his wife every day or at least speak to her.

  “You’ll be home soon enough,” he said, trying to perk up her spirits. “It’ll be all right. I’m sure he’ll realise you’ve missed the last train.”

  Connie gave a half-smile that implied George couldn’t possibly understand what she was going through. But then she seemed to snap out of it, ever the trouper making the best out of a bad situation.

  “We did good, didn’t we? You must be over the moon, George Butler.” She grinned, still feeling as though she’d been slapped.

  George couldn’t help but beam. This strange woman had come into his life and turned it around.

  “Where did you learn to play like that?” he asked.

  “I ain’t always been a vicar’s wife.”

  George watched her go, half expecting her to just vanish into thin air.

  And soon the rain started again, and the only sound Connie could hear was the click-clack of her heels on the wet pavements as she crossed the road.

  But this night would come back to haunt her. This night would change everything.

  The cottage was cluttered and dark; a picture-book image ravaged by the forces of neglect and time. Inside, wallpaper patterns faded into sepia and window frames were rotting and dirty. Stacks of newspapers lined the walls in the sitting room, only making way for a large brown-leather armchair and a side table in the middle of the room. The side table was long-stemmed and elegant, with space for a single cup or small plate on the top of its lacquered surface. Dr Beauchamp had told Henry that he had liberated it from the café near his apartment in central Paris. He’d had many happy hours playing cards or drinking coffee during his reckless years as a young man in the city – and now a small part of that past was with him during his final years. Henry placed a cup and saucer on the long-stemmed side table and sat on a pile of newspapers – while Dr Beauchamp sat in the armchair and caught his breath.

  The old man had emphysema, a slow degeneration of the lungs, which was reaching its final stages.

  As he usually did during his visits, Henry would read calming passages from the Bible and try to stir the old man’s memory about his time in France. If there was a letter from his family – especially from his son – Henry would be pressed i
nto service to read it aloud, perhaps several times. Dr Beauchamp’s craggy face would crack into a smile, as if he could hear his son’s voice reaching out to him. And just for a moment, the old man’s rheumy eyes would glint with the fire of life once more. This always lifted Henry’s heart. The rest of the time during Henry’s visits, he would occupy himself with more mundane matters – tending to the washing up, perhaps preparing a simple snack, putting out the washing (Dr Beauchamp had a volunteer from the town, one of Mrs Gulliver’s coterie, who kindly came to make him a proper meal once a day). And although it was his Christian duty to minister to his flock by visiting those who required it, Henry also enjoyed the freedom it gave him. For an hour, Henry could forget about the dark shadow of Vince Halliday in his own life; the tatters of his marriage. Instead he could provide support and real help to someone who needed it. Henry supposed that the visits made him feel useful – in a way that he didn’t feel in his own home.

  As Henry finished washing up the cups and saucers, something caught his eye in the overgrown garden. Had he seen a figure out there? He dried his hands and moved to the back door, sliding the bolt back.

  “What’s that?” Dr Beauchamp called from the other room, hearing the door opening.

  “Just going outside,” Henry replied – but his words were drowned out by a coughing fit from next door.

  Henry went into the garden. It was a patch no more than twenty foot by twenty foot, bordered by rampaging rose bushes and fruit trees. The grass went up to Henry’s knees. He looked into the distance. One of the lower branches of an apple tree was swaying slightly. There didn’t seem to be anyone there now. Had he imagined it?