Land Girls: The Homecoming

by Roland Moore

  “I sneaked out earlier. Heard some old women talking. Thought you’d better know that the Home Guard is talking about dredging Panmere Lake.”

  In an involuntary motion, Connie put her hand to her mouth. The horror hit her hard. What did this mean? That people weren’t viewing Henry’s disappearance as a missing person any more? Now they viewed him as a victim. Someone to be found. Vince’s face was etched with anguish at her suffering. Connie broke down. She had been so strong through all of this, but now, after so little sleep over the last few days and the exhaustion of the endless unanswered speculation, she felt the tears coursing down her cheeks. She felt Vince pulling her close, hugging her, his fingers on her hair. She didn’t want this, even though it felt so comforting. Vince the protector. The man who had taken care of her in London.

  She needed time and she needed rest. She was too tired to work out what to do. She had to work out how to play the situation.

  But maybe this was the way to play it –

  Connie stopped resisting and allowed him to hug her. She needed comfort – God, how she needed it – but the action might also make Vince think that she was trusting him at last.

  “I’m here,” he mumbled.

  Once she would have given anything for this closeness, this reassurance. When she’d left the children’s home in the East End, Connie had gravitated to the capable Vince like Mrs Gulliver to gossip. He represented everything to her at that point in her life – saviour, boyfriend, protector. But now she knew she shouldn’t be looking for comfort in these arms.

  “We will get through this,” Vince muttered.

  We?

  This compounded the feeling of it being wrong. He wasn’t comforting her and saying it would be all right. He was treating her as though Henry had already gone forever, that he was already dead. Vince’s actions, his words, were those of a mourner expressing sympathy for your loss. We.

  Two places set at the dinner table.

  All at once, a cavalcade of thoughts tumbled through her mind as Connie pieced the jigsaw together.

  Why was he even here now? He should have gone after she returned from London. He’d got his precious key. Yes, he said he’d stay on, but why? Vince never did anything without a reason, he said so himself.

  She remembered the violence he had meted out to Henry. The struggle she had to stop him going berserk. But he’d let it go. He’d let things go. That wasn’t like Vince. Vince liked revenge. Vince did everything for a reason.

  Henry attacked Vince and Vince hurt him. But that wouldn’t have been enough for Vince. Lessons would have be learnt, people would have to pay to make sure they never did it again.

  Vince liked revenge.

  Icy fingernails danced down Connie’s spine as she realised a possible truth. After Henry made his stand, Vince had sent her to London to get the key. He’d made sure she was out of the way. And she’d gone, like a fool, because she desperately wanted to end his hold over them. Connie had asked how Vince hoped to find the safety deposit box for the key. He’d said that he could do it, that it wasn’t her problem. But how could he do it? It was impossible, wasn’t it?

  And Connie realised a second, horrifying possible truth. The key probably wasn’t for a safety deposit box. It was just a random key, a reason to get her out of the way. A white elephant. Connie had played into Vince’s hands – into his plan – and trotted obediently off to London to get it, thinking that it would be enough to make him go.

  But that left Vince with enough time to –

  Connie found tears welling in her eyes. Vince hugged her tighter, thinking that she was letting it all out. Connie felt his belt buckle digging into her. She glanced down as she moved away slightly.

  And she realised he didn’t have his gun. For once, he didn’t have the gun.

  She put her hands up to wipe her eyes, knowing it would make it harder for Vince to maintain the embrace. She edged her way out of it as slowly and carefully as she could, feeling like a mouse moving away from a cobra.

  She needed to get upstairs.

  “I’m going for a lay down,” she said, her words barely more than a whisper. “Hope that’s all right.”

  “Yeah. It’s your house.”

  She had to get away, while her legs would still carry her.

  She went to the hallway. He was watching, perplexed, trying to guess whether something had changed in her demeanour.

  “Don’t you want no supper first?”

  “Maybe later, eh?” Connie said, as levelly as she could manage.

  He fixed his icy-blue eyes on her. She was willing him not to notice anything odd about her behaviour; any little tic of her face that would give her away. This was like all those times when she ensnared some wealthy businessman in a gin bar – hoping they wouldn’t clock the deception behind her smiles. The only difference was that this was a life-or-death situation. After what seemed like an eternity, he shrugged. All right, then.

  “I’ll make a pot of tea when you come down.”

  “Yes, that’ll be nice.” She smiled pleasantly.

  Too much.

  She couldn’t make this seem too normal – too much like happy families. She tried to tinge it with slight anguish. But Vince had clocked the expression. A genuine smile. A smile that showed contentment. It was not what he was expecting from a woman who’d lost her husband.

  Too much.

  That was the danger when two people were playing one another. It was like a deadly game of chess.

  Connie walked, slowly and purposefully, upstairs. She had to commit to what she was doing and not give into doubt or stay for any sort of interrogation. She had to hope that Vince would let the odd smile go, discount it as an involuntary reaction. Inside her heart was racing as she took the steps one by one. Another long walk. She reached the top and allowed herself a small sigh of relief.

  Downstairs, Vince Halliday struggled to work out why he was suddenly feeling uneasy. What was it about Connie’s behaviour that didn’t seem right? Then he remembered that his gun was by his bed and his own jigsaw of the situation fell into place.

  He sped out into the hallway, up the stairs, taking them two, three at a time. He burst into the spare room to find Connie turning quickly. She was pointing Amos Ackerly’s pistol at him.

  “Where is Henry?” she said, her voice flat and drained.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking –”

  “Tell me,” Connie said, cocking the safety catch off the gun. Her brown eyes were staring intently at Vince. And for the first time, he regretted that she knew him so well; every little expression on his face; every little tell-tale sign of emotion. She knew how his mind worked. And he knew that she was, at this moment, looking at his face for any betrayal of emotion. Any clue. He could hear his breathing getting louder. This was a real threat. Unlike when Henry had brandished a shotgun at him with no intention of firing it, Vince knew that Connie could go either way. As far as she was concerned, she’d lost her husband. She thought he was responsible. And that meant she could, potentially, do anything.

  Vince licked his lips.

  “You were acting like he was dead. Like you knew he was dead. And Mrs Gulliver saw you following Henry.” Connie watched for any flicker in his expression. “So tell me where my husband is.”

  Vince hesitated. “You’re being ridiculous –”

  Connie’s finger felt the smooth curve of the trigger. Momentarily she thought of Joyce, seeing her in her mind’s eye confronting the German airman. Connie gritted her teeth and she fired the gun.

  At Pasture Farm, everyone piled into the kitchen, exhausted and hungry after their search for Henry. Joyce took off her satchel which had contained sandwiches for the girls during the day, and sniffed the air. The kitchen was alive with the smell of lamb stew. With hungry, eager eyes on her, Esther scolded Iris to wait, when the young girl tried to persuade Glory to give her a spoonful to taste.

  “I’ve got to test it out. Make sure it’s all right.” Iris laug
hed.

  “I’ll give you testing!” Esther, hot from cooking, warned. At that moment, Frederick Finch came through the door behind her and dipped a spoon into the stew. He smacked his lips at the taste. Esther spun round to catch him, but it was too late. He scurried away, slipping the spoon into his trouser pocket. Esther shook her head in disbelief. “He’s got his own spoon. Whatever next?”

  “Get away from that. All of you,” she snapped, taking charge. “If you want to make yourselves useful, you can lay the table and get water for everyone.”

  Glory smiled. She loved being part of this family. The girls like protective sisters, Esther like a surrogate mother.

  Knowing that the quicker they did this, the quicker they would get to eat, Joyce and Iris leapt into action and started to put out knives and forks. Dolores said she would just put her bag in her room and then be down to help. Glory started drying some serving bowls and Esther stirred the stew. The well-oiled machine of the kitchen, borne out of countless meals. Esther knew that hungry people always made the keenest helpers.

  Slopping generous portions into each bowl, Esther placed them on the table. As Finch prepared to wolf down a spectacularly large forkful, Esther stopped him mid-way.

  “What about grace?”

  “Is she the new girl?” Finch raised a knowing eyebrow to Glory. She looked happily back, pleased to be included in the joke. He was a bit like a kindly uncle, she thought.

  After a nudge from Esther, Finch dutifully recited a hurried grace. And then everyone dived into their food.

  “Did you get anywhere looking for Henry?” Esther asked, making a small attempt to stop dinner becoming just a succession of eating noises. Otherwise it would just make her think of the pigs.

  Joyce shook her head, mid-mouthful. Iris took up the mantle: “We walked over from the south side of Helmstead, all the way to Briarly Woods and the old Macintosh farm.”

  “There’s no sign of him. It’s just like he’s vanished,” Joyce said, swallowing.

  “But the Home Guard aren’t giving up hope. Some man asked them if they were going to dredge Panmere Lake, but they said no, not yet. So that’s something,” Iris added.

  “The worry is that he might have had an accident. Be in a ditch somewhere.” Finch said.

  “Fred!” Esther admonished. “That poor Connie must be sick with worry. It’s been six days, ain’t it?”

  “They haven’t found his bicycle, so that’s something, I suppose,” Joyce offered.

  Everyone murmured, lost in their own thoughts about how they’d feel if their loved ones suddenly disappeared. Joyce had more experience than most of them. When John had been shot down over occupied France, Joyce had faced agonising weeks of uncertainty, not knowing if he was dead or alive. “It’s the not knowing,” Joyce said. “That’s the worst. ‘Cos you can cope with anything once you know what you’re coping with, can’t you?”

  Esther nodded. She had seen how Joyce had maintained her patriotic stoicism after her mother, father and sister had died in the bombing of Coventry. It didn’t bear thinking about how Joyce had coped with that, and how she’d then wanted to play her part in the war with a renewed fervour as a result. Now Joyce was Mrs Patriotic, a woman driven by her desire to help her country. Esther knew that Joyce would never get over that tragedy, but it was some minuscule comfort that she knew what had happened to them.

  Would Connie get that comfort?

  “Go and check on Dolores,” Esther said to Gloria. “Her dinner’s getting cold.”

  “That Dolores got out of laying the table, didn’t she?” Iris said, admiring the woman’s cheek.

  Gloria did as she was told, scraping her chair legs back on the red-brick floor tiles as she left the room. She trotted upstairs, the chatter of the kitchen getting softer and more distant. She was already thinking about returning to her comforting stew, to the warmth of the table. To her surprise, Glory found the door shut on her shared bedroom, so she knocked gingerly. There was no response. Glory thought that was strange as she was sure Dolores said she was just putting her bag upstairs. Glory pushed open the door. Dolores was rocking on the end of her bed, tears streaming down her face. She glared accusingly.

  “You did it, didn’t you?” she said angrily.

  Glory looked startled. She shook her head, an automatic response as for a second she didn’t know what she was being accused of. But then she saw Dolores’s carved box open on the bed. Glory remembered that she hadn’t locked it. She’d tried but she couldn’t do it with her hair grip. Guilt played on her face for a moment and Dolores spotted it. It was all the validation she needed.

  “You’re a no-good thief, going through my things,” Dolores spat, lunging off the bed at Glory Wayland, pinning her to the rough timbered floor. Glory wriggled free and scampered to the door. But Dolores was fast. She pushed Glory into the door frame, a flare of pain exploding in the girl’s cheek bone as she hit the wood. Dolores spun her round and slapped Glory across the face.

  Glory Wayland couldn’t scream. She couldn’t even shout for Dolores to stop. All the bottled-up rage and frustration that Dolores had been carrying around was unleashed. She pulled Glory closer by her collar and prepared to punch her. Glory tried to bring her knee up to push Dolores off her, but she couldn’t get a purchase on the floor. But even though Glory couldn’t raise the alarm, the noise of the argument and fight had led to racing footsteps on the stairs. Glory frantically tried to get Dolores off her.

  Joyce and Esther burst into the room. Instantly, Dolores let go of Glory’s collar, letting her fall back onto the floorboard. The girl put her hand to her neck and shuffled away on her bottom into a corner, eyes full of fear.

  “Someone mind telling me what the hell’s going on?” Esther said.

  To everyone’s surprise, Dolores turned her attention to Joyce. She thrust the ornately carved box into Joyce’s hands as she launched into a tearful tirade.

  “You’ve been cribbing on at me. Trying to find out why I never say anything –”

  “What’s this got to do with –?”

  “Well, the reason I don’t say anything. The reason I don’t want to make friends with you all. The reason – is this. Look at it!” She gave a curt nod of her head, indicating for Joyce to open the box. Suddenly Joyce didn’t want to know anything about Dolores, but the woman was glaring at her. Hesitantly, Joyce put her fingers on the box and prised the lid open. She saw the newspaper article, the photograph, the condolence card. And Joyce realised that far from being a secret collaborator, Dolores O’Malley had much more private and harrowing reasons for keeping herself to herself.

  “I’m really sorry,” Joyce said, mortified for her own lack of compassion and her slanted judgement. But Dolores wasn’t listening.

  “Seems she,” Dolores said, pointing at Glory, “decided to find out for herself.”

  Esther turned to the wide-eyed girl. “Is this true?”

  All eyes were on Glory Wayland. She’d wanted to be part of the gang, part of the family. But she had no choice but to nod. Yes, it was true. She couldn’t speak to tell that she was doing it to fit in, to help them accept her. To make them love her.

  Esther’s mood changed instantly, hardening and cooling, a look of flint in her previously soft, maternal eyes. Calmly, she asked Joyce and Dolores to go downstairs. When they had gone, and their footfalls diminished on the stairs, Esther looked with profound disappointment at Glory.

  “I took you in against my better judgement. Connie vouched for you. But maybe she didn’t know what you were like. What you’d do.”

  Glory shook her head, trying to protest. Her long fingers reached for her small notebook and she hastily opened it, about to write.

  “It’s too late. I don’t want any more lies or excuses,” Esther said, putting her hands over the book. “I can’t have people going through other people’s things. Especially not private things like this. Poor woman.”

  Gloria Wayland knew what was coming.

  “
You leave here first thing in the morning. Do I make myself clear?”

  Glory nodded, her heart breaking.

  The gun shot had echoed around the vicarage.

  Connie was shaking. Smoke wisped out of the end of the barrel. She kept her hand on the weapon and kept it aimed at Vince. She had shot it into the wall. A warning.

  Vince was shaken, but still he refused to say a word. “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Why are you still here?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you needed some help, that’s all.”

  Connie refused to stop pointing the pistol at him. She indicated that he should go downstairs. She forced him first down the narrow staircase, slowly, one step at a time.

  “Go slow. If you run for it, I’ll blow a hole in your back.”

  Doing this slow, careful dance, they reached the dining room.

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “Whatever I say, how do I know you won’t just shoot me?”

  “You don’t.”

  Vince shook his head, refusing to speak about Henry, perhaps knowing that the wrong answer might cost him his life.

  Connie knew he had something to do with her husband’s disappearance. “If you had any compassion, you’d tell me what happened. You’d tell me whether Henry was alive. If I ever meant anything to you, you’d tell me.”

  She’d lain awake so many nights in that empty bed, staring at Henry’s neatly folded pyjamas hung over the back of the bedroom chair. Doing this felt like decisive action. Doing this felt the right thing, even though Connie was terrified.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.” Vince was worried about giving the wrong answer.

  “You were wearing me down, weren’t you?” Connie said. “All the meals for two, the supportive smiles and concern and all that. You were waiting for me to fall into your arms.”

  Vince pondered how to respond. What answer would allow him to keep his head on his shoulders?

  “You can’t blame a man for trying. We were great together. The excitement, eh? Remember the excitement?”

  “I have plenty of that now.”