Land Girls: The Homecoming

by Roland Moore

  “What, today?” Finch shrugged, answering his own question.

  “What about yesterday?”

  “Don’t think so. Why, has he said he saw me, then?”

  “No. I just wondered.”

  She knew Finch’s memory was never that sharp, fogged by idleness and drink, but he thought it had been a few days ago when Henry borrowed the shot gun. But then Finch seemed to remember something. A sudden twinkle appeared in his eye. “I suppose the secret is out now, eh? About what he was up to.”

  Connie looked confused, until he elaborated: “He was trying to prove he could bring home his own supper. Wanted the gun to catch a rabbit.”

  She nodded, pretending she knew about this.

  “Did he manage to shoot anything in the end?”

  “Unfortunately not,” Connie said bleakly.

  Dejectedly, she went back to work. Finch winced as he cut his finger with the pen-knife.

  The rest of the day – like the day before – was spent with Connie wishing the hours away so she could leave the farm and resume her lone search for Henry. At one point, she managed to find Glory Wayland alone in the kitchen. She found herself telling her that Henry was missing. She hadn’t intended to, but she felt slightly unburdened. Talking to Glory was like a confessional, a patient listener hearing your sins.

  “We had a sort of argument before I left for London,” Connie said. “I felt –” It was hard to admit this out loud. “I felt he was going to leave me.”

  Glory scratched something onto her pad. A single accusatory word: “Vince?”

  It took Connie a moment to process this question and what it meant. Could Vince be responsible for Henry’s disappearance? She didn’t think so. She couldn’t be a hundred per cent certain, but she didn’t think so.

  “He’s got what he wants because I brought him that key back. He’s got no reason to do that.”

  Glory scribbled again. “Does he need a reason?”

  Connie shrugged. Vince was a loose cannon, but in her experience, he usually did things for a reason, not out of spite. “Just keep your eyes open for anyone who mentions Henry. Any clue could be useful, yeah? But keep it to yourself as I don’t want everyone asking me loads of questions.”

  Connie didn’t want everyone else to know he was missing. Plus it might shed too much light on what had been happening at the vicarage. And the last thing she wanted was to jeopardise the fact that Vince Halliday might be about to sling his hook soon. Yes, that’s what she wanted. Wasn’t it?

  Roger Curran was typing up a piece on apple trees when Connie poked her head around his office door. He looked dismayed to see her. What wild-goose chase was she here for now?

  “I’ve come to say sorry. Maybe we shouldn’t have stirred up that Michael Sawyer business. But I hope we did some good.” She felt that she had given Michael Sawyer a solid warning about how he treated Margaret in future. That, perhaps, validated their interference.

  “Apology accepted,” Roger Curran said, returning to his work. But Connie wasn’t finished.

  “And there was something else,” she said.

  Roger’s look of dismay had returned.

  “My husband has gone missing. And I need your help to find him.”

  The journalist raised an eyebrow of concern. He reached for his notebook.

  But she placed a hand over his pad. “I need you to do it off the record.”

  Apart from the issue of Vince, Connie couldn’t stand the thought of the legions of wasp-tongued old women in the town who would delight in saying “I told you so. She was always going to be no good and drive him away.” She knew she had to find Henry herself, with Roger’s help – even if that meant searching the whole of Warwickshire.

  The next few days followed a familiar pattern. Connie would sleep little – preferring to get up even earlier than usual and scour an area before she went to work. Then, after she had finished her stint in the fields, she would spend the evening searching again. This was made easier because Roger Curran had a car, an ancient 1928 Morris Minor that looked as if it had been poured around his ample frame. With Connie squeezed into the passenger seat, they would drive, in some discomfort, all around: from Helmstead to Brinford; from Upper Chalcombe to Midberry. There were limits as to how much further afield they could travel as petrol was rationed and Roger had a strict allowance for his work as a journalist. But Connie felt she was doing all she could. They ticked off a new couple of areas during each drive. But still the emptiness of the vicarage greeted her each night; the cavernous bed without Henry looking at her across the pillows. One night, Roger stopped at a village pub and brought Connie a drink and a sandwich.

  “Have you ever had any missing persons cases before?” she asked.

  He shrugged as he tried to recall any details. “There was a woman in Midberry who disappeared while walking her dog. Back in ‘36 or ‘37.”

  “Did they find her?”

  Roger suddenly realised that his anecdote ended badly, but it would do Connie a disservice not to tell her now. “Found her body in a stream. But I’m sure we’ll find Henry Jameson in one piece. Alive and well.”

  During this time, any suspicions Connie had about Vince started to diminish. One evening, he sat down with Connie and told her that they needed a methodical plan to try to find Henry. For his part, he would sneak out each day to search on foot. He was always careful not to be seen leaving or entering the vicarage, and there was a limit to how far he could go. But he was doing his bit. Then later, the two of them would sit at the dining table and cross off areas on the local map. This small, but significant, effort, along with Connie’s own searches meant that a lot of the map of the area had black lines through it, as village after village was ticked off.

  But despite these efforts, after five days, Connie was getting frantic. Vince urged her to be calm. They were being as methodical as they could be.

  But as Connie was struggling to hold things together, she realised something dreadful. A can of worms was about to open and she had no way of stopping it.

  “What is it?” Vince asked.

  “Tomorrow is Sunday service.”

  Tomorrow the church would be packed with the congregation – religious stalwarts and those turning up to do their weekly duty. Everyone would expect to see the familiar sight of Henry delivering the sermon. Connie knew that the time for secrecy was running out.

  On Sunday morning, Connie lay awake as the first birds started to chorus outside her window. She had been awake for a while, staring numbly at the ceiling, counting the hairline cracks in the plaster. Today was the sixth day that Henry had been missing. She had no idea where he was. She hoped and prayed that he was all right. But the fact that he had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth was gnawing away at her. She couldn’t fathom how someone could disappear without a trace. She couldn’t work out how the search with Roger Curran hadn’t revealed a single lead. No one had seen him. No one knew anything. She dragged herself out of bed. She ate a silent breakfast with Vince around the dining table, a breakfast which he had prepared for her. As she finished, he smiled – with a look approaching softness.

  “I hope it goes all right,” he said gruffly. “The service.”

  Connie nodded in agreement. She hoped so too. “There’s no way out of it.” She had been dreading this moment. Wearing her best suit, she left the vicarage and emerged into the chilly morning sun, the sound of church bells filling the air. Old ladies filed into the church and Connie greeted them with a pleasant hello. Then Connie entered the church, the bells still pealing, and strode past the mostly empty pews to the front. Moving into the vestry, she caught her breath, trying to compose herself for the task ahead. Peeking out, she could see the pews filling. Mrs Gulliver, stony faced and sitting in her usual place at the front, the closest thing to a reserved seat in the whole place. Esther Reeves and the Land Girls – Iris Dawson, Dolores O’Malley and Joyce Fisher. Beside them was a thin, young woman in a battered cloche hat; a borrowed
scarf concealing the bandage on her neck. Frederick Finch was at the back of the church, silhouetted in the doorway, as he spoke to one of the ancient officers of the Home Guard. Lady Ellen Hoxley entered, in a fine pale-blue suit and hat – followed at a socially acceptable distance by Dr Richard Channing. Connie was relieved to see the friendly face of Roger Curran scurrying to the front of the church. He sat near a disapproving Mrs Gulliver. She didn’t like sharing her pew – and she didn’t like Roger Curran. A man who made his living dealing in tittle-tattle. Mrs Gulliver didn’t see the irony of this judgement.

  Finally, the bells stopped ringing and everyone sat expectantly. There was the odd cough of discomfort as they waited.

  Connie couldn’t delay things any more. She stepped slowly out and took the short walk to the pulpit, her high heels clipping on the stone floor of the church. It was the longest walk of her life. Mrs Gulliver’s brow furrowed. What was going on here? Roger Curran offered a small smile of support to Connie.

  Connie surveyed the room and swallowed hard.

  “I wanna make an announcement.”

  “Oh dear Lord, she’s pregnant!” Mrs Gulliver hissed, clutching her chest dramatically.

  “No. It’s not that,” Connie replied, somewhat thrown by hearing her words echoed around the stone walls of the church. It was all so loud. But she pressed on: “Thing is, Henry – your vicar, my husband – has –”

  She trailed off, finding the words overwhelming.

  “What is it, Connie, love?” Esther said. Joyce and Iris looked concerned too. Finch was whispering to Gloria Wayland – did she know anything? The thin girl was shaking her head. Lady Hoxley and Dr Channing were conferring.

  Connie found her voice. “He’s gone missing. This is the sixth day that he’s been gone.”

  There were gasps from around the congregation.

  “I’d hoped he’d just – come back, you know? That’s why I kept the search to myself and didn’t say anything. But now I can’t keep it a secret no longer.” Tears were filling her eyes and her voice was wavering as she struggled to finish. “I’ve lost my husband. And I know some of you will think that I wasn’t good enough for him, but I love him and he’s gone,” she announced, crumbling, the sound of her sobs echoing alone for a moment around the stone walls.

  But then people, friends, neighbours, swelled forward to comfort her. Mrs Gulliver scowled at the unseemly behaviour of everyone going to the pulpit, but then accepted it with unusual good grace. She’d seen her own husband put in the ground and she didn’t wish the end of a marriage on anyone. She placed an awkward, bony hand of comfort on one of Connie’s heaving shoulders. Finch, Esther, Iris and Joyce were around her. Esther hugged her and stroked her back in a maternal way. “We’ll find him, lovey. You’ll see,” she promised.

  Connie rubbed her eyes, buoyed by this support. It really was true – a problem shared was a problem halved. And if you shared it with a dozen people it was even better. Now they all knew. And that had got to be a good thing.

  Esther was true to her word, stepping immediately up to the challenge of finding Henry Jameson. She and Finch organised the entire congregation to spread the word about Henry’s disappearance. In the space of ten minutes, the church had transformed from a place of worship to an impromptu command centre. They encouraged each person present in the church to tell all their friends and families, in case anyone had seen Henry in the last six days. Iris Dawson ran to get PC Thorpe – the only policeman in the area, a man who served the larger town of Brinford. She would make the search a police matter – an official missing persons case. Although Connie knew that during war time, so many people were displaced by bombing raids or by evacuation that it was practically impossible to find missing people.

  The four elderly members of the Home Guard shuffled out, intending to start a search of the north hills. Connie had told them that she and Roger Curran hadn’t searched that area yet as it hadn’t lent itself easily to a search by car. Finch got a description of Henry’s bicycle, which wasn’t at the vicarage, and circulated it to the parishioners. Esther asked Connie to check Henry’s belongings in more detail and note down anything at all that was missing. She knew that such detail might mean the difference between someone who had gone missing intentionally or someone who had gone missing accidentally.

  Soon the whole town was mobilised in the search for their beloved reverend, Connie’s husband.

  As everyone went on their way, combing every area of the town and beyond, an exhausted Connie left the church. Glory ran up to her. She gave Connie a smile of support, but then thrust her notebook under her face. It was the same page from before. The same question. “Vince?”

  Connie shook her head. “I don’t think he’s got anything to do with –”

  But Glory hastily added to the paper. “And me?”

  Realising what she meant, Connie replied, “It’s not the right time. Please just – bide your time.”

  Glory looked torn. She knew she was very close to the vicarage. It was next door. And it was where Vince Halliday was holed up. She was so close to confronting the man who had left her for dead. Part of her knew she should get revenge. And yet, she respected Connie. Maybe there was a way to end this without bloodshed if she did what Connie wanted. That’s what she would do, yes. For now, anyway.

  Glory ran outside. And while the Land Girls were huddled around Finch, deciding on how best to organise themselves, Glory debated about whether to join her new friends or not. But then she ran over the bridge, back to the farm. Connie walked back to the vicarage. Vince was looking out of the window.

  “Wish I could help more, Con.”

  He followed her around the house as she checked Henry’s belongings, as Esther had suggested.

  “You really don’t know anything?” Connie said, emboldened by the support she’d been shown, giddy by a weight lifted.

  “’Course not. I hurt him when he pointed that shotgun at me. I got even then, didn’t I?”

  “Before, though – you said that he was an annoyance or something. You said you didn’t have to tolerate him.”

  “I don’t remember,” Vince said, shaking his head. “I probably said a lot of stuff when my hand was gammy. Come on, Connie, you know me. My way is to have it out with someone there and then. Not play games.”

  “Suppose.”

  “It’s natural you’d think that. It’s been difficult for you, me being here, I know. And you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t think of every possibility to explain what’s happened to him.”

  He seemed so reasonable. A rock of support. Connie took this in, her brain befuddled by the morning. She was exhausted from her announcement in the church – and yet she felt strangely enlivened and relieved. This wasn’t just her burden now. Others were sharing it, as they searched the town, the lanes and the hills. Someone would find him. And everything might be all right.

  “I suppose if I could blame you, I don’t have to blame myself,” she said sadly.

  “I guess.” Vince gave an awkward smile.

  Vince brought her a cup of tea and said it was the least he could do. He told Connie that he’d stay out of her way – and then he’d go out after dark to search for Henry, when there was no chance of him being seen. Connie thanked him.

  That afternoon, Roger Curran knocked at the door of the vicarage. Connie convinced Vince that it would be all right. It was only the man who was helping her search. She went out and he took Connie over to the village hall, where the Home Guard had organised a central base for the search operation. A map of the Helmstead and Brinford areas was pinned to the walls and one of the officers was allocating search areas to an enthusiastic group of old residents. Mrs Gulliver was looking a little lost. Connie came up to her and thanked her for helping. Mrs Gulliver grimaced – as if something was troubling her.

  “Oh what? You think I’ve driven him away, is that it?” Connie stormed, fed up with the old battle axe’s judgemental ways. Even though it was what Connie feared h
ad happened herself. It was one thing admitting it to yourself, quite another to take it from a sneering self-appointed moral guardian.

  “No. I don’t actually,” Mrs Gulliver snapped back. “But I think I know something you don’t.”

  “Go on, then,” Connie said.

  “You mustn’t shoot the messenger,” Mrs Gulliver said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know we don’t see eye to eye, Mrs Jameson. But I’m only saying what I saw.” She pulled Connie to one side and lowered her voice. “Thing is, I went to the vicarage one night when you were working at Hoxley Manor. And Reverend Jameson answered the door to me.”

  “Right,” Connie said. Where was this going?

  “But he wasn’t alone in there. And yet, he covered up that someone was in there with him.” Mrs Gulliver gave a look of genuine sorrow as she said: “As hard as it is to believe, I think he might be carrying on with another woman.”

  Connie surprised everyone in the hall by letting out an inappropriate raucous laugh. Although she knew the truth, the ridiculous idea acted as a release for all the emotions that were bottled up. As Connie got herself under control, Mrs Gulliver looked aggrieved that she hadn’t been taken seriously and darted out of the village hall. Esther entered with a tray of cakes she had made, followed by Finch with an urn. Connie had no idea where he’d found the urn. It was probably best never to ask. But the stout farmer started to fill it with water and to prepare industrial quantities of tea to power the search. Connie left the hall feeling buoyed by the support; a glimmer of hope that Henry might be found.

  Someone was waiting in the village square for her. At first glance, Connie thought it was just another woman ready to search the fields. But then she realised it was Vera Sawyer.

  “Come with me,” she said solemnly.

  “I can’t just go off. I’m busy.” Connie couldn’t just leave. She had a search party to organise. Vera closed her eyes as if it pained her to even say the words she’d come to say.