The Fleethaven Trilogy

by Margaret Dickinson

  She had to see him.

  It was like a craving that would not be assuaged until she was with him. Even then, when he was near, all she wanted was to be in his arms, lying with him, being loved by him . . .

  ‘Have you mended it, then?’ she asked, truculence in her tone. His face wore a rapturous expression.

  ‘Oh, hello, Esther, what are you doing here?’ Without waiting for her answer, almost as if he were uninterested in it, he had turned away and bent his head once more into the workings of the great machine.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Hilton.’ Martha Willoughby’s voice spoke behind her, with an underlining accent on the ‘Mrs’. ‘And to what do we owe this particular pleasure?’

  Esther turned and her chin went a little higher. ‘I came to see how Jonathan – Mr Godfrey – was getting on with repairing the engine.’

  ‘Really?’ There was a simulated sweetness to Martha’s tone. ‘I hadn’t realized that his – er – services were your particular property.’ The sarcasm was evident and Esther was left in no doubt that Martha Willoughby knew exactly what the relationship between Jonathan and herself was.

  Esther smiled with false amiability in return. ‘I’m sure Mr Godfrey is pleased to be able to help. In fact . . .’ She glanced over her shoulder at the two men laughing and talking together, gesturing to the internal workings of the engine, and there was a note of jealousy in her voice. ‘He seems to be thoroughly enjoying it.’

  Martha nodded, a malicious smile on her mouth, the fold of fat beneath her chin wobbling. ‘Yes, he seems to enjoy his life here. Made himself quite at home, so I gather. Nicely hidden away from the war.’

  ‘He came to see Ma – Mrs Harris – to tell her that he had known her Ernie, if it’s any business of yours, Martha Willoughby, which it ain’t. And he was wounded, you can see that for ya’sen.’

  Martha smirked. ‘Convenient though, ain’t it, that he can hide in a little out-of-the-way place like Fleethaven Point where the authorities won’t find him in a month o’ Sundays?’

  ‘Well, at least he’s done ’is bit. I see you hang on to your man well enough. You ain’t goaded him into joining up. Though I’m surprised the poor man hasn’t – if only to get away from you!’

  ‘Dun’t you get high ’n’ mighty with me, Mrs Hilton. We all know how you come to be where you are. A tramp from the Lord knows where who took old Sam Brumby for the poor old idiot he was . . .’ She wagged her finger in Esther’s face. ‘Getting him to change his will when he was on his deathbed.’

  Esther gasped. ‘I never did—’

  Martha’s tirade continued. ‘My Thomas’s family was related to old Sam’s way back. All that should have been ours, by rights, not left to a scheming hussy like you!’ Martha was in full flow now, enjoying having Esther at her mercy. ‘To say nothing of how you tricked young Matthew into marrying you. Telled him you was pregnant by him, I don’t doubt. ’Tis the oldest trick in the book, that one.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Esther shrieked, ‘and you know damn well it ain’t. My Kate was born nearly a year after we was wed.’

  Martha cackled. ‘Huh, ya dun’t have to be pregnant to catch ’em. Only tell ’em you are.’

  Esther’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oh,’ she said, her tone heavy with sarcasm, ‘is that how you caught poor old Tom Willoughby, then?’ It was a particularly cruel remark considering that the Willoughbys had no family.

  Martha’s fat cheeks, already marked with tiny red veins, grew purple. ‘Why, you, you—’

  At that moment behind them the great steam engine spluttered into noisy life and drowned Martha’s abuse.

  Esther turned on her heel and marched away from Martha and off their farmland. She returned to Brumbys’ Farm. It was her farm, and everything in it, no matter what Martha said.

  Esther wished now she had never gone up to Rookery Farm, particularly as Jonathan had hardly seemed to notice her. His indifference had hurt her far more than Martha’s scathing attack.

  So, Esther thought furiously, if he prefers a smelly old engine puthering steam and smoke to me, then he’s welcome.

  Nevertheless, she found it impossible to sustain her anger for long, for when he came back to the farm, his face was grubby with oil and smuts and his eyes were shining like a little boy’s on Christmas morning.

  ‘It was good to get me hand in again, Esther,’ he told her as he sluiced away the grime under the pump in the yard. ‘Eh, but I’ve missed it – my work. I hadn’t realized just how much until . . .’ He spread his hands out before him and looked down at them and laughed. ‘Until I got them all mucky with oil and grease again.’

  She watched his lean body rippling in the sunlight and longing burned inside her. Again she saw the bandage covering the wound on his shoulder; that jagged, purple scar that was a constant reminder of what he had seen and suffered.

  It was a reminder to her too that he was still a soldier and that the war was not yet over. Not for either of them.

  That night their love-making was as tender as ever and when they lay together quietly afterwards, she cried against his shoulder, and kissed the scar with tender lips, her tears falling on to it as if to wash it away if she could. But it would always be there. It was as if the scar on his body was like a scar on their happiness. An unceasing reminder that it all must end.

  Twenty-nine

  ESTHER watched the rotund figure of a man on a bicycle riding with solemn concentration along the lane towards the Point.

  The sun glinted on the silver buttons of his black uniform and her heart gave a lurch of fear as she saw him dismount and lean his bicycle carefully against the gate.

  A policeman! Why was a policeman coming to her farm?

  He walked slowly across the yard towards the back door of the house. ‘Mrs Hilton?’ he greeted her.

  She nodded and ran her tongue over lips that were suddenly dry.

  ‘We’ve – er – reason to believe that there’s a soldier staying hereabouts, Mrs Hilton.’ He paused, but she returned his gaze steadily and remained silent. Her heart thumped so loudly she was certain he must hear it. She was praying that Jonathan would not appear out of the cowshed.

  ‘Well, now . . .’

  At that moment there came a clang from the cowshed and the sound of a man’s voice. ‘Steady, girl. Steady, Clover.’

  The policeman raised his voice so that it carried across the yard. ‘This ‘ere soldier, been in these parts a while now, so we understand. And – er – whilst he might have been on sick leave at first, if you understand me, well, time’s gone on, so to speak, and if he’s fit and healthy enough to be working on a farm, then . . .’ The man spread his huge hands palms upwards.

  Esther caught her breath. Over the man’s shoulder she could see Jonathan emerge from the cowshed and walk across the yard towards them. She made an involuntary movement to stop him, to try to prevent the inevitable. But purposely Jonathan avoided noticing her gesture and came to stand quietly beside the policeman. The older man turned slowly to look at him as Jonathan asked, ‘Could it be me you’re looking for?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say, sir.’ The policeman was polite with a hint of apology in his tone. ‘I have to follow up these – er – reports we get, you know. People get some funny ideas, about deserters and such.’ He lifted his huge shoulders in a shrug. ‘Ugly name, isn’t it, for a man who’s probably done more than most for his country and rightly deserves a bit of respite, but – well – you know how it is, sir?’

  Jonathan nodded, his mouth set in a grim line. ‘I do indeed,’ he said quietly. ‘You have your duty to do.’

  ‘I’m glad you see it that way, sir.’ He paused, his keen eyes searching Jonathan’s face. ‘So may I take it,’ he added quietly, ‘that you will be reporting back to your unit in the very near future?’

  Jonathan nodded. ‘Yes, officer, you may.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d call in at the station when you go for the train?’ He paused, glanced towards Esther, and back again to Jo
nathan. ‘Shall we say in a couple of hours?’ There was sympathetic understanding in his tone, but nevertheless an underlying firmness.

  Esther gave a little cry and her hand fluttered to her mouth to still the sound. She watched, wide-eyed, as Jonathan slowly nodded agreement.

  ‘I’ll bid you good day then, sir.’ The policeman touched his forefinger to his helmet in a gesture of farewell, nodded to Esther and turned away.

  As the man mounted his bicycle and rode off, a little unsteadily, Esther could contain her anger no longer.

  ‘How dare he? How dare he come here . . . ?’ She was shaking with fear. Fear that the moment she had dreaded had come. Now Jonathan would leave her.

  Jonathan put his arms about her. ‘Don’t, my darling, it had to come.’ He put into words her dread. ‘We both knew that one day I would have to go. I’m lucky it was not the military who came looking for me. They would have arrested me on the spot.’

  ‘Why?’ she cried. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong? They—’

  ‘Esther, my darling. I should have gone back weeks ago. But I—’ His voice broke with emotion and he buried his face in her neck, his words becoming muffled. ‘I couldn’t tear myself away from you.’

  ‘You mean – you mean you’ll be in trouble when you get back?’

  Jonathan did not answer her.

  She tightened her arms about him, as she realized at last how much he did love her. He loved her just as much as she loved him. She knew what it must have cost this man in terms of pride and principle to have overstayed his term of sick leave and run the risk of being put on a charge.

  ‘Oh, my love, my darling,’ she murmured.

  At that moment over his shoulder, parked a little way along the lane Esther saw a pony and trap. Sitting in the trap were two women, one tall and stout and the other thin and angular.

  Esther stiffened and as Jonathan lifted his head to look at her, she gave a low growl of rage and tore herself from his grasp. She was running across the yard, her skirts held up in one hand and shaking her other fist and yelling at the two women in the trap.

  ‘You bitch! You fat old beezum, Martha Willoughby. And you, Flo Jenkins, you wizened old maid—’

  Martha made valiant efforts to turn the trap around in the lane, but Esther was upon them before she could do so. She grasped the side of the trap and shook it, making it rock precariously.

  The two women screamed in terror, but Esther’s frenzy had driven all sense and reason from her mind. All the fury she had held against these two women for years was unleashed.

  If it had not been for Jonathan reaching her at that moment, she would have tipped the trap over on to its side, throwing the two women into the road and undoubtedly causing them physical harm. He took hold of her, pinning her arms to her sides so that she struggled and kicked against him and continued to mouth insults at the two women, but no longer could she hurt them.

  Jonathan raised his normally quiet voice above Esther’s screeching. ‘Go, Mrs Willoughby, just go!’

  Martha, red and flustered, scrabbled in the bottom of the trap for the reins and sat up. She cast one anxious look back at Esther and then flicked the reins and the pony moved forward. As the trap moved off down the lane, the two women stared back at Esther, fear in their eyes.

  As if to confirm that there was reason for the trepidation on their faces, Esther yelled after them, I’m not finished with you two old biddies yet. You’ll pay for this day, Martha Willoughby!’

  He took her back to the farmhouse and into the kitchen. He made her sit down near the range whilst he poured her a strong cup of tea from the pot on the hob.

  Esther was still shaking with rage and now with fear, as the realization overwhelmed her. She moaned and closed her eyes and rolled her head from side to side. ‘Don’t go. Please, don’t go!’

  He knelt in front of her and took hold of her hands. ‘My darling – I must. But I want you to remember that wherever I am, I shall be loving you still. If we never meet again . . .’

  Her cry of anguish broke into his words, but he stroked her hair and held her even closer, comforting her as he might a child. ‘If we never meet again,’ he repeated bravely, ‘our love will last for ever.’

  ‘I love you, I want us to be together. Don’t go back. I’m begging you!’ Her tears flowed, and she clung to him. ‘Don’t leave me, I can’t bear it.’

  He eased himself back from her clinging arms and gently held her tear-streaked face between his hands, forcing her to look at him. He brushed the strands of hair, wet with her tears, from her eyes.

  His own sorrow and his heartache for her misery filled his eyes with compassion. ‘My own dear love, my only love, you don’t mean it . . .’

  ‘I do, I do!’ she sobbed wildly.

  He shook his head. ‘No, you don’t, not really,’ he insisted with a quiet firmness. ‘If I were to stay, I’d be a deserter – a man always running from the authorities. See how easy it is for the local bobby to track me down?’

  ‘They’ve reported you – know it! Then they couldn’t resist coming to gloat . . .’

  ‘Hush, my love, hush.’ He put his arms about her once more. ‘I couldn’t run for ever. Eventually, I’d be caught and probably sent to prison—’

  ‘You’d be alive!’ she cried bitterly.

  ‘What kind of life would that be? A life of shame. You’d come to despise me . . .’

  ‘Never! I just want you here with me – alive. I don’t care . . .’

  ‘But I do, Esther,’ he said, giving her a very gentle yet nonetheless deliberate shake. ‘I’d hate myself. I couldn’t live the rest of my life like that – not even with you, my own darling.’

  Hysterical now, she pulled away from him and stood up, moving backwards behind the chair, deliberately putting a barrier between them. ‘You don’t love me. Not as much as I love you – you can’t do, or – or you wouldn’t go.’

  In her passion, she didn’t see the hurt in his eyes that her words inflicted. But the pain was in his tone. ‘Oh, Esther, don’t say such a thing – not to me. Not to me, my love.’

  She stood before him, holding on to the back of the chair, her whole body shaking, racked by heaving sobs. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he moved closer. Tenderly he wiped away her tears. Even as he did so, more came to take their place. He could not stem the flow of her misery.

  Gently he released her grip on the chair and enfolded her once more in his arms, just holding her close until she was exhausted and her sobs subsided to a forlorn, childish hiccuping. All the while, he murmured soothingly and stroked her hair.

  When at last she was calmer, he said again, ‘I could not live a life of dishonour, my dear, not even for you.’ He tensed waiting for her crying to burst forth again, but she was quieter now, drained of the passion and resigned to his going.

  ‘Esther, you must be strong. We must get through this and then, when it’s all over, well, well see how things stand.’

  It was the only hope he could, or would, give her. She would perhaps never quite understand, never quite accept his reasons, but she realized that despite all her courage, her forthright, strong will, this gentle man was made of even stronger mettle than she.

  Jonathan’s arms tightened about her and, against her hair, his voice was deep with poignant longing as he whispered, ‘Love me one more time, Esther, before I go.’

  *

  Later, she watched him walk away from her, down the lane and out of her life.

  When he reached the bend in the road that would hide him from her view, she gave a cry of agony and began to run after him. Not yet, she told herself, I must see him still. Reaching the bend road herself, she stopped and stood watching the figure striding away from her, growing smaller and smaller.

  Not once did he turn and wave, not once did he look back and In her heart she knew why and If he looked back now, he would not able to go.

  ‘Jonathan.’. She breathed his name like a prayer. ‘Look at me, Jonathan. Turn aroun
d, my darling.’

  But the figure grew smaller and smaller until, through the blur of her tears, she could no longer see him.

  Thirty

  THE days following his going were long and lonely. Ironically, when Jonathan left, it was two years almost to the day since Matthew had walked away into the mist down the same road.

  ‘Danny ses that nice mans gone away. Has he, Mam?’ Kate wanted to know.

  Esther swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. She took Kate on to her knee, the child leaning her head against Esther’s shoulder. ‘He had to leave suddenly.’

  ‘But he didn’t say goodbye to me.’ Kate’s mouth quivered.

  ‘He asked me . . .’ Esther added, inventing the lie, ‘to give you his love.’

  ‘Is he coming back? I want him to take us fishing again.’

  ‘I – don’t know. Maybe some day.’

  ‘I hope he comes back. I liked him – and so did Danny.’

  ‘Yes,’ Esther murmured. ‘So did I, Katie. Oh, so did I.’

  Mechanically, Esther went through the motions of living. The demands of her daughter and the farm were all that kept her going. There was a numbness in her mind and an ache in her heart that was an actual physical pain in her chest. She worked till she dropped, hoping to find oblivion in exhausted sleep. The nights were the worst, when she lay alone in the darkness and relived the times she had lain in his arms. Even tears would not come to give vent to her misery.

  Her grief was too deep for tears.

  In the cooling days of autumn she walked the shore close to the waters edge, hearing the ghostly laughter they had shared. She sat in the sandy hollow, the place where they had made love, her arms wrapped around herself, her body aching for his touch. Now, all she felt was a gnawing emptiness below her ribs. Even her favourite place at the end of the Spit failed to bring her solace. It seemed forsaken and lonely, and the wailing seagulls overhead seemed only to echo her own isolation. It seemed as if all feeling had gone, even her love of the land failed her now.