That Burning Summer

by Lydia Syson

  Ernest had got in the habit of watching people the way he watched birds. Quietly observing. You could tell a lot from what they didn’t say. Take June, forking away mechanically on his left, further up the field than either Peggy or Ernest. A steady, silent walk, back slightly hunched. She always used to sing when she worked. Well, it had barely been a week since the news. Mum said she was in shock. She said it was hard to know what to do with such uncertainty. You couldn’t mourn if you didn’t know for sure.

  Ernest kept up the rhythm of his work by muttering lists of initials. M.I.A. had been hammering through his head like a runaway train ever since the telegram. Missing in Action.

  L.D.V.

  A.R.P.

  R.O.C.

  He wanted to keep on top of them, didn’t want to get caught out.

  S.W.A.L.K. June had once showed him that one, only a fortnight ago, on the back of an envelope. It wasn’t one he really needed to remember, but somehow he couldn’t forget it. Sealed With a Loving Kiss.

  L.M.F. He had a feeling not many people knew that one.

  June stopped at the end of the row to straighten her back, but she didn’t respond to his smile. He might as well not have been there. Ernest followed the direction of her gaze. Just a dog in the distance, nosing around, looking for rabbits, half an ear cocked for its master’s whistle, no doubt. He went back to his turning, aching from the repeated twist.

  She was duller now. June didn’t sparkle any more. Ernest wanted to put her in vinegar, like they did each year with the Christmas pudding sixpence. Bring back her shine.

  45

  Peggy hurried away as soon as the first shouts went up.

  “Myra’s here! Dinnertime!”

  If she said nothing, it would look as if she’d slipped away for a pee. Saliva collected in her dusty mouth, and her stomach growled, but Peggy strode on. There was something else Henryk wanted to tell her, she was sure of it. She had managed to sneak away for nearly an hour the evening before, after Ernest had gone to bed, and Henryk had come so close to saying something. His breath on her face. His lips about to open. And then he had drawn back.

  Her stride lengthened. As she moved, the cool flow of silk under her cotton frock and between her legs made her feel fluid and lithe. One thing on the outside, another underneath. She smiled, enjoying the sensation. You couldn’t tell anything just by looking, could you?

  It was easier than you might think to stay out of sight on the Marsh. Peggy knew all the different paths you could take to the church now, every crossing point of every dyke and every field. She could get there almost unseen from just about any direction. If she was quick enough now, she could be back before the afternoon work got under way, with nobody the wiser. June didn’t notice Peggy’s comings and goings any more. Sometimes when you spoke, her black-smudged eyes would just stare at you, as if you were speaking Latin.

  If she looped over towards the Looker’s Hut, Peggy could walk along beside the big dyke, sheltered by the reeds on one side, and then cut back across. Perhaps she should have a quick look inside while she was so close. She kept meaning to. It might be a better place for Henryk to hide in the long run. At least it had a bed, as far as she could remember. It must have a bed, mustn’t it? Maybe not a key, though. She’d have to check that.

  Then she stopped abruptly. A howl went up, unlike any other. It sounded like a new kind of siren, but what could be the point of a warning system nobody knew anything about? She certainly hadn’t seen any leaflets on the subject. The noise started high, and dropped chillingly in pitch and volume, frosting her skin in creeping waves of ice.

  A few steps further, and she understood.

  On the slight rise of the bank ahead, nose to sky, a sheepdog was calling. Next to the animal there was a man sitting on the grass, his body slumped forward, his head almost between his knees, like somebody trying hard not to faint. When the dog caught wind of Peggy, it looked at her, nudged the man gently, and then went back to its howling. Her first instinct was to turn back, creep away before she could be seen.

  Then she recognized the dog’s owner. It was the looker, the old man who’d stood with them at the station and watched the sheep depart. It felt like months ago, but it was barely more than a few weeks. He had looked sad enough then, she thought, with that terrible distance in his eyes. Now he was a picture of misery, refusing to respond even to his own sheepdog, whose attentions had almost knocked his cap off. He clearly didn’t want to be disturbed. But Peggy felt uncomfortable about leaving him. She couldn’t just walk away from that white hair and unkempt whiskers, or the desperation of that dog.

  “Hello?” she called out, wishing she’d gone the other way, wishing she was in the church now, instead of wasting the precious minutes she could be spending with Henryk. She walked towards them. Right in the middle of a downward moan, the dog broke off and looked at her expectantly.

  “Hello?” Peggy said again, from just behind.

  He still didn’t move. How awkward this was. Cautiously, she began to circle the pair. The smell of the blood hit her at exactly the same time as the sight of it: rusty, salty, raw. The front of the looker’s smock was drenched, and one hand was bloody too, smeared like the clasp knife dropped beside him on the grass. There was a white cotton handkerchief caught under his boot, and that was stained too, red and implausibly gaudy. It reminded her of the dark viscous gore oozing along the channel of the dead rabbit’s ear when it finally lay still, and the feel of the animal’s fur against her bare leg, the extended spring of unstiffened sinews. She couldn’t touch the looker now. She couldn’t ever touch him.

  The dog reduced its howl to a low anxious whine, but kept a steady gaze on Peggy, as if she had brought an answer, a solution, and any moment might bring its owner back to life. Peggy suddenly found herself too shaky to stay upright, but neither could she sit, not there, not so close.

  She ought to make sure. That was the first thing, wasn’t it? She had no idea if you could have a pulse if you had stopped breathing. Her own was throbbing so violently she felt it would drown out everything else. She couldn’t really see if the blood was still flowing or not, and didn’t even know if life or death would make it stop. She didn’t want to look too closely. She couldn’t bear to see the wound.

  Peggy glanced at the dog, and its look of eager hope gave her hope too. Maybe it wasn’t too late. As she leaned forward the dog suddenly darted across, nosing after a crust of bread under the limp handkerchief.

  “No … stop … you can’t eat that!” Peggy’s voice faltered. The dog licked up the last crumbs from the grass, and settled back to looking, and waiting.

  Peggy knew then that she couldn’t be alone with this body for another moment. She turned and ran, back towards the haymakers. The dog barked twice—short, angry barks—and then took off after her, determined to round her up. It sped towards her, sleek and low, nipping at her heels in no time, before finally taking a mouthful of Peggy’s frock.

  “No, no … go away!” Peggy gasped, horrified, as the cotton tore. “Back! Go back!” she ordered, as loudly and fiercely as she could manage. She marched firmly away, looking back just once, to see the dog slinking back to its dead master. When Peggy felt sure it wouldn’t come after her again, she ran as fast as she could.

  46

  Uncle Fred caught her by the elbows, just as she collapsed, though Ernest wasn’t far behind. He could hardly hear her words for snot and sobbing.

  “He’s dead.” She took another gulp of air.

  Ernest actually clapped his hand to his mouth to stop himself from spilling out Henryk’s name.

  “Who, Peggy? What are you talking about?” said Fred, and the way her legs trembled and her shoulders heaved and juddered made Ernest feel sick. No. Oh no.

  “The looker. The old man. You know.”

  “She means Frank,” said Myra. There was a clatter as she dropped the dinner things she’d just been packing up. “Is it Frank?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t kn
ow his name. He’s dead. I’m almost sure of that. His dog … there was a knife …”

  “Where …?” The questions sped up, shouting and urgent and all at once. Was she sure? Frank often slept out. It was his way. How did she know he was dead? “Blood,” said Peggy, becoming less coherent all the time. “Lots of blood. A knife,” she repeated.

  “Mum,” she said, her legs twisting under her again. “Mum, it was awful … so awful … I can’t tell you …”

  Aunt Myra brushed Mum aside and shook the answers she needed out of Peggy, before dispatching help in all directions. Fred and the two farmhands were to go over to the Hut with the horse and cart to find the body, and bring it back if there was any hope. Ernest was to cycle to the pub, and make them telephone the police. June sat Peggy down on the stubble with a mug of cold tea, sweet, “for the shock.”

  “Take your pitchforks,” ordered Fred, over the jingle of harness. And then Ernest, on the point of rushing back to the farmhouse, overheard the word “manhunt.” From the dart of fear in Peggy’s eyes, he knew she had heard it too.

  “Claudie!” screamed June, standing up and going gray. “Why did you leave her, Mum? How could you leave her?”

  “She was asleep. She’ll not wake for another half an hour. She never does.”

  “I’m going back to the house with you. I can’t stay here,” said June, and set off at a run. “Ernest, come on … hurry up … what are you waiting for?”

  Ernest felt his skin twist as Mum grabbed his arm. She looked uncertainly from him to Peggy, making a decision.

  “No. You stay with your sister. Look after her. I’ll call the police.”

  Mum doesn’t trust me, he thought, even though I was right about the plane.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry about us.”

  It wasn’t exactly worry he could see in her eyes. It was fear. He didn’t want to think about the change. No time anyway, as Fred was urging her away, and then calling her back to whisper something else in her ear. She nodded, twice, and they all went their separate ways, leaving Ernest and Peggy alone under a burning sun in the half-mown field.

  Peggy was shivering, her teeth actually chattering, clicking away like the telegram machine at the post office. Ernest looked around for something to keep her warm, and spotted Mum’s cardigan, tossed to the edge of the field.

  He went to get it, put it round Peggy’s shoulders, and her eyes unglazed.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  Peggy shook her head, and looked at him properly.

  “It was awful,” she said again.

  “Because of the blood?”

  Peggy nodded, and seemed to go pale again.

  “How …?”

  “Throat cut. I think … he was sort of slumped forward, like this …” Peggy demonstrated, chin on chest. “… and I didn’t want to look … not at the actual … the wound.”

  “They mustn’t move the body. You don’t think they’ll move it, do you?”

  “What?” Peggy frowned.

  “It’s all evidence. Clues. They’ll have to find a motive. You didn’t touch anything, did you? You didn’t leave any fingerprints?”

  “Stop it, Ernest. This is real. It’s not a story.”

  “I was just trying to help.” Ernest refused to take offence. He couldn’t let her upset him when he was meant to be looking after her. “So what do you think …?”

  “I think he cut his own throat. Oh, Ernest … can’t you see? He was old. He knew about war. He didn’t want to wait to be killed by the Nazis. And he’s not the first to think that way, I can tell you.”

  This was news to Ernest.

  “But what if he didn’t do it himself? What if … ?” No … surely not. But Ernest couldn’t get the idea out of his head. The old man opening the church door. The shock on Henryk’s unprepared face. And then what? Did he threaten him? Did he follow him? He had killed before, after all. He had seen a plane hurtle from the sky in flames and known he was responsible. Maybe there’s not such a difference when all you’re trying to do is save your own life. “What else did you see? What can you remember?”

  Peggy sat up. Her expression had suddenly changed, as if she were seeing something inside her head too. Her eyes dropped, and then she looked at Ernest again.

  “His sandwich. The dog finished his bread. Just the last crust.”

  “The dog? There was a witness?”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  Peggy seemed reluctant to say more.

  “Why would you bother to eat if you know you’re going to kill yourself?” he said, slowly realizing what she was thinking.

  “Maybe he hadn’t decided then.”

  “Or maybe it was seeing the knife when he got it out to cut the bread that made him think of doing it.”

  Ernest hadn’t even convinced himself. But he didn’t want to think about Henryk’s hands on that knife, and he certainly didn’t want to suggest the possibility to Peggy. Her eyes had glazed over again. Suddenly she made a noise as if someone had punched her in the stomach, and scrambled to her feet.

  “Ernest … a manhunt. Everyone will be out looking. I’ve got to go and tell Henryk. I have to warn him. What if they search the church?”

  “But Peggy—” started Ernest, grabbing her before she vanished again. He still couldn’t quite put his suspicions into words.

  “What?” she said, shaking him off.

  He’d have to say it.

  “You don’t think Henryk …”

  “Of course not,” she said indignantly. “Not in a million years.”

  Ernest took one look at Peggy and knew he’d never stop her going.

  “No, of course not,” echoed Ernest.

  “You’ll help me, won’t you? You promise you’ll help me keep Henryk hidden? You won’t let them hurt him?”

  Ernest shook his head. He stood there, chewing his lip, looking after her, looking all around, thinking as hard as he knew how.

  47

  The banging didn’t sound like Peggy. When it started up, so loud, so urgent, Henryk believed the end had come. This was it. It was bound to happen in the end. And now he had just a few seconds to decide—give himself up right away, or put it all off for a few more days, or hours, or maybe only minutes? Then he heard her voice, calling his name, and he unlocked the door.

  “Quick … they’re coming, they’ll be here any moment.” Peggy grabbed the key, and stuck it on the outside of the door. “Why did you lock the door? It’s no good locking the door. It just looks more suspicious. You have to hide. Get under the pulpit right away. Go on. I’ll explain later.”

  Pushing him away with a hand over his mouth, she just shook her head and shushed him as he tried to question her. She was hot with speed, her dress torn, hair wild, eyes bright and restless, casting round the church for anything he may have left out that could give them away, while she fumbled with the latch of the pew.

  “The milk churn.” Henryk pointed, and then dived for the pew, dropping to his knees to open the hidden door under the bench, before worming his way in backwards. Whatever happened next, he wanted to be facing it. Peggy grabbed the empty can, saw the jam jar of faded flowers on the windowsill and bent to thrust that in after him too, then glanced again through the window and gasped.

  “They’re coming already. Oh no. I can’t get away. There’s no time.”

  Henryk reached out a hand. His fingers closed round her bare ankle and he pulled gently.

  “Come … quickly … there is space.”

  It was almost true. He pressed his back against the brick at the side, squirming out of her way, and helping to pull her in at the same time. One hip jammed against the wooden beam above. He shuffled his uniform across, so that at least she could lie on that. It would take the edge off the hardness for her. But there was only one way they could both fit in: he would have to curl himself around her.

  “Shut the door now,” he whispered, trying to keep
his upper arm back and away from her, trying to give her room. They had never been so close. He felt her urgent movements, heard the swish of the hatch, and everything went dark. Water from the spilled jam jar soaked into his sleeve. The blackness filled up with their breathing. She must have run all the way. He could feel her fighting to control each exhalation, the rise and fall of her ribcage. Her back burned through the thin dress. He felt the darkness glowing with the heat and life of her. She was his flarepath.

  Together, they listened. Nothing, at first. Henryk’s spine stiffened as he tried and failed to keep his face a safe inch or two away from the warmth of her neck. Damp tendrils of hair. The smell of freshly-mown hay and dust and earth. There was a moment when he felt the give in the tension of her body, as if she couldn’t keep herself separate from him forever, and didn’t want to either, and then he felt her weight and warmth against him like an unexpected gift. Still he didn’t move.

  Longing kept surging through him: it was dizzying. Like diving in a Hurricane, a corkscrew dive or a roll, red flecks in your eyes and the crush of acceleration on your chest as you plunge. A second away from unconsciousness and not knowing where you will find yourself when the blackness clears: plunging towards waves, or soaring into blinding sun. Control. He needed to keep everything under control. She must not know how much he felt for her. It was too much.

  Voices outside. Deep, male voices, loud and confident, such as Henryk hadn’t heard for days and days.

  “Do they know about me?” he said right into her ear, so quietly he wondered if she would hear. She twisted her head towards him. He felt the flutter of eyelashes on his forehead.

  “No. They’re looking for someone else. For a murderer.”

  Henryk’s questions had to stay unsaid. The shouting was getting louder. Impossible to make out words through brick and wood and stone and air, and the pulsing terror in their own heads. There was a crash, and then another as the church doors were thrown open, first the outer, then the inner. Peggy winced and braced herself against him with a muffled whimper.