Gracie's Sin

by Freda Lightfoot

  And as they worked, few words were exchanged, saying only what was necessary and no more.

  Gracie would measure the girth of a tree with a tape at a set point from the ground. ‘Thirteen and a quarter inches. Got that?’

  ‘Of course. I’m not deaf.’

  ‘This is a larch.’

  ‘No, it’s a silver birch, can’t you tell by the leaves.’ The type and quantity of standing timber was of vital importance, and careful notes had to be made of the tree’s possible age, whether it were Scot’s pine, European larch, beech or oak, if it had been damaged by squirrels, disease or blight and whether the wood had any outstanding features or peculiarities. After this would come further dispute as they attempted to estimate the height of each tree, and just to make sure they were doing the job correctly they might be inspected from time to time by their divisional officer, or someone from the Forestry Commission.

  Before they could embark on any particular survey, they first needed to locate and contact the owner of the wood and gain his, or her, permission to acquire the timber. They’d met some delightful people, including actresses and Members of Parliament, many of whom were only too happy to donate their trees to the war effort, perhaps requesting a few favourites to be left standing, a point on which the team were always ready to oblige. But it wasn’t always so straightforward. Old ladies would sometimes stand on their doorsteps with tears in their eyes, declaring it impossible for them to even consider relinquishing such a family treasure.

  ‘You can’t take my wood, my great grandfather planted it in 1850. It’s always been here, a part of the estate. I know each and every tree individually.’

  Or even. ‘Where would all the dear little squirrels go?’ and they found themselves assuring her that they were only stocktaking, that others, coming after them, would make the final decision.

  They’d once been chased away by a farmer wielding a cut throat razor, while another had taken a pot shot at them with his air gun. Fortunately his aim had been wild and they’d already dived into the duck pond. It was a memorable experience.

  This morning was proving to be yet another. They were having no luck at all locating the owner of the next piece of woodland they wished to survey, and the frosty atmosphere that still pervaded between the two girls wasn’t helping one bit. Everyone they’d asked had either been a stranger to the area or stone deaf, or so it seemed. In the end they’d spotted a man clearing out ditches and he’d told them Colonel Driscoll was the chap they were looking for. Unfortunately, this was his day for hunting or racing or some such, so they’d be lucky if they caught him.

  ‘It’s another world,’ Lou muttered. ‘Come on, we can’t waste the entire day waiting for Colonel whoever he is, to finish chasing foxes or betting on the gee-gees. Let’s make a start and get his permission later.’

  More cautious, Gracie thought this risky, and suggested they mention their presence to someone up at the big house. ‘Maybe there are other members of the family living there, or even a housekeeper.’

  ‘Fuss, fuss, fuss.’ They cycled up a drive that was at least two miles long in Lou’s estimation although Gracie thought half a mile a more accurate assessment, only to find the place locked and barred at every door and window. No sign of the Colonel or a single member of his family. Not even a housemaid, let alone a housekeeper.

  ‘Has the old boy taken the whole lot of them hunting with him? Well, that settles it,’ Lou declared. ‘If we don’t get a move on, by the time the inspector arrives, we’ll be way behind and then we’ll get another rocket. And our reputation is already in ribbons as it is.’

  ‘Thanks to me, you mean.’

  ‘If the cap fits.’

  They might well have gone on indefinitely in this vein, despite the fact they were both secretly longing for the feud to end but were too proud to admit it. Salvation, however, was at hand in the form of one small boy, highly inquisitive and full of the adventures he devoured daily in his Hotspur. When he spotted two shabbily dressed figures in dungarees lurking in the woods, each carrying maps and clip-boards, he ran hot foot to the village bobby to report them as enemy spies.

  Constable Wells was bored and in need of a bit of excitement, so he readily agreed to get out his trusty old bike and follow the boy to investigate. A breath of fresh air would do him good, he thought, and you never could tell, it might just be his lucky day. It was as well he did go, he told his good wife afterwards, for indeed there were two strangers in Belmont Copse. ‘Though you could’ve knocked me down with a feather when I saw they were women. Who’d’ve believed it?’

  Whatever the girls said made not a scrap of difference. The constable was so delighted to have something happen in Little Grippington for the first time in heaven knows how long, that he was more than ready to lock them up, on the off chance they were indeed spies. He arrested them on the spot, not believing a word of their tale that they were counting trees for the government. Which government, that’s what he wanted to know.

  ‘Ours, for God’s sake,’ Lou cried in desperation. ‘We’re in the WTC and have papers to prove it.’

  ‘WTC? Never heard of them. Is that your code word then?’

  Lou groaned. In vain did she attempt to explain that the initials stood for Women’s Timber Corps, a section of the Land Army. Constable Wells knew for a fact that that particular body worked on farms, all open and above board, and didn’t prowl about other people’s estates in a suspicious sort of way. ‘Anyway, you can make papers say anything these days. And who issued them, that’s the question? I must say they’re getting mighty cunning these Bosch, using women as spies. Whatever next? You could be another Mata Hari, for all I know.’

  ‘Really and truly, we are counting trees,’ Lou persisted, as he led them resolutely back to the station, wheeling their bikes.

  ‘We also check how old and what condition the trees are in.’ Gracie put in.

  ‘Or whether there are birds nesting in my brain too, I suppose,’ Constable Wells sneered, determined not to be taken for a plodding country copper. ‘If y’are who ye says y’are, then the Colonel will know all about it. We’ll ask him, soon as he gets back.’

  ‘Where is he? Will he be long?’ Gracie asked, feeling thoroughly frustrated and anxious about the prospect of a night in the cells.

  ‘He’s gone to the race meeting in Newton Abbot. He’ll be home tomorrow, sure as eggs is eggs. Not that we’ve seen many of those lately. Now you two young ladies makes yerself comfortable. My missus’ll fetch you over a bit of soup later, if she can spare any. Don’t worry, the colonel will sort out this mess.’ Whereupon he closed and locked the cell door, making it clear that was his final word on the matter.

  They spent a most unpleasant and uncomfortable night attempting, and failing, to sleep on a hard cell bed which, as Gracie pointed out, made Matron’s “biscuits” seem as soft as goose down. The place stank of disinfectant and something they’d rather not put a name to.

  ‘Hell’s teeth, this is a right pickle, eh? I see you didn’t try to tackle Constable Wells on the subject of mattresses,’ Lou challenged her, though couldn’t entirely prevent her mouth twitching a little at the corners, as if itching to smile at the farce of it all.

  ‘Don’t think I’d’ve got anywhere,’ Gracie ruefully admitted. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Probably not, but it might’ve been entertaining to watch. More fun than staring at these four walls with only a dish of watery soup for supper. This is all your fault, you know.’

  ‘How is it my fault? What on earth have I done this time?’

  Lou pouted but it was clear she couldn’t quite put her finger on anything in particular, so simply settled on, ‘Well it generally is. We wouldn’t be in this spot in the first place if you hadn’t come in late and ...’

  ‘Oh, don’t start that again, for goodness sake.’ Gracie flung herself off the bunk and began to pace the floor. Five steps in one direction, six in the other. She quickly grew bored of counting and sat down again.


  The pair sat facing each other on the two hard benches which served as beds and privately wondered how on earth they were going to get out of this one. Lou was bitterly yearning for Gordon and worrying over the lack of paper and a pen, which meant she couldn’t write her daily letter to him.

  Gracie was thinking that her career in the WTC seemed doomed to be one entirely of argument and incident, her best friend lost to her. In addition, her parents were more divided than ever before. Her father would be blaming her for encouraging her mother to leave home. Brenda would be regretting this rash act every time she listened to the tale of how Aunty Phyllis fell from a trollybus and damaged her back. Could she be blamed for that too, since Gracie had been with her at the time? She would not have been in the least surprised. What on earth her parents would say when called upon to supply bail for their gaolbird daughter, she didn’t dare to consider.

  Colonel Driscoll considered the two miscreants with undisguised curiosity. ‘Prowling about my woods, d’you say? Dashed if that doesn’t beat all. Can’t quite see them fitting the bill as spies though, Constable. Bit far fetched, what?’ He put on his spectacles and peered at them more closely through the tiny window in the cell door. ‘Open up. Let’s take a dekko, eh?’

  Constable Wells painstakingly unlocked and swung open the heavy door and both Lou and Gracie scrambled to their feet. They longed for breakfast and a hot bath. If being nice to the colonel could bring either one of those about, it would be worth conjuring up a modicum of charm.

  Gracie smiled her most winning smile while Lou quickly tidied her hair, wishing she’d thought to carry a lipstick in her dungaree pocket. ‘Good morning sir,’ they said, almost in unison. ‘What a relief to see you at last.’

  ‘We’ve been looking for you for ages.’

  ‘Have you indeed? Why was that?’ Thumbs stuck in the pockets of his check waistcoat he rocked back and forth on his booted heels, examining them in detail from top to toe. ‘Wanted some pretty flowers to grace your dining table, eh? Or somewhere suitable for a picnic with your young men? Not the done thing, don’t you know, taking stuff from a chap’s wood without permission. Could prosecute you for trespassing at the very least.’

  ‘Do we look as if we’re off on a flippin’ picnic?’ Lou briskly responded, affronted by his superior attitude, one which reminded her of the tales her mother told of the cotton barons during the depression. She certainly wasn’t having anyone lord it over her. She was a fervent Labour supporter, after all. ‘As we tried to explain to the constable here, we’re in the Timber Corps and have permission to inspect and survey any piece of woodland on the Ordnance Survey map, absolutely everywhere. Out of courtesy, we did call upon you but you were out. Everyone was, apparently. So we went ahead without you.’

  The colonel blinked in surprise, as though he were unaccustomed to being so bluntly spoken to. ‘I say, bit rich, what? Got some spunk though. Give you that. Quite a peach in fact, eh? Now I come to look at you.’

  'Thank you.' Never having been compared to a fruit before, Lou warmed to the compliment, tempering her tone slightly for, now that she looked more closely, he did have quite delightful, twinkling blue eyes. She heard Gracie clearing her throat and knew, instinctively, that she too was beginning to enjoy this encounter. Had they been on proper speaking terms, Lou thought sadly, they might by now have been actually sharing jokes behind their hands.

  Gracie said, ‘we were only doing an initial reccy, you might say, until we found you, sir. If there’d been someone in authority to ask, we would have done so.’

  ‘Hmm, it was Mrs Bradshaw’s afternoon off, and the gardener would be, well, dash it - in the garden. Or he’d better be,’ the Colonel finished, rather crisply. ‘I was - well, I was - otherwise occupied.’ He had in fact spent a rather dull afternoon at the races, losing rather more than he’d intended but he was perfectly philosophical about that. There would be other meetings, other horses who didn’t fall down at the last damned hurdle.

  Gracie then produced her identification card. They both showed their badges of crossed axes, even their worksheets and OS maps. In no time at all, the colonel was satisfied. Even the Constable was reluctantly forced to accept that Little Grippington had held on to its claim for being the quietest village in the South West.

  The colonel took them home to what he described as his ‘faded country pile’, a fairly accurate description of a small granite country house which seemed as dark and gloomy on the inside as it did out. Every surface seemed to be covered with books, piles of old newspapers and betting slips. There were dog bowls everywhere, and as they entered each room, Colonel Driscoll would launch into a potted history of his ancestors while pretending to search for his spectacles in various cupboards, generally finding what he was looking for in the shape of a glass, always mysteriously half filled with amber liquid.

  The absent Mrs Bradshaw, now back from visiting her mother, who lived in the next village and had trouble with her rheumatics, happily cooked them a substantial breakfast. The girls demolished the home made sausages, black puddings and fried bread with relish, the best fare they’d tasted in a long time. They were also allowed the use of a freezing Victorian bathroom, where they took it in turns to bathe in a couple of inches of luke-warm water, naturally disagreeing strongly over who should go in first, while the other stood shivering on the cork bath mat.

  After a lunch of bubble and squeak, they walked the wooded estate with the colonel, painstakingly explaining which trees might be needed and satisfactorily negotiating a shelter belt around Belmont Wood, if only to give the impression it was still there.

  Lou took pains to point out that new whips and saplings would be planted in due course, in place of those which the Corps felled. ‘They’re being grown in special nurseries, though priority at the moment is on acquisition rather than replanting. That’ll come later of course.’

  ‘So I should hope, dash it.’

  Lou was warming to the old codger and his evident pride in his land, even if the domestic order of his establishment left something to be desired. He invited them to stay on to dine and, since their landlady would still be under the impression that they were behind bars, they accepted with alacrity. No self-respecting Lumber Jill every refused a good meal.

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ he beamed. ‘Enjoy a bit of feminine company, don’t you know. Quite a treat.’

  As they went to freshen up, Lou let out a little squeak and for the first time in weeks, addressed Gracie without conscious thought. ‘Hell’s teeth, the old goat just pinched my bottom.’

  Dinner was superb, taken in a cavernous dining room which boasted a fine plaster ceiling, an oak overmantel decorated with grapes and vine leaves, beneath which a huge log fire burned. One wall was entirely taken up by a heavily carved sideboard which held more food than the pair had seen in a long time.

  They began with a fruit sorbet, followed by a delicious trout caught from the Colonel’s own stretch of the River Exe, and a delicious apple pie, all washed down by one of his finest clarets, or so he informed them. After a platter of cheese and biscuits, which the girls largely left untouched as they were full to bursting, Mrs Bradshaw led them upstairs. She showed them into separate rooms, one in a faded crimson, the other a somewhat wishy-washy blue. Both were decorated with silk-embossed wall coverings, showing faded squares where pictures had once hung. And each sported velvet curtains, gold tassels, ancient gas fittings, and boasted a vast four poster bed.

  ‘Beats last night’s accommodation into a cocked hat,’ Lou murmured, half under her breath. She stood awkwardly at the door of her room for a moment, feeling suddenly, oddly, bereft. This would be the first night she would have spent on her own since joining the Timber Corps and somehow the idea didn’t appeal. Gracie, she noticed, was lingering with equal reticence at her own bedroom door, her pale grey eyes on Mrs Bradshaw’s departing figure.

  They exchanged sidelong glances and Lou experienced a sudden urge to run to her erstwhile friend and
beg her to forget all their differences; to forgive her for blaming her over the perceived breach of discipline which had lost Lou so much time with her darling Gordon, and for them to be as they once were. Chums, mates, buddies.

  Before she could quite find the words, Gracie had said, ‘Goodnight then,’ gone inside and shut fast the door.

  It took a long time before sleep claimed her, the bed feeling so huge and empty, the room an amphitheatre of echoes and strange creaking that Lou almost decided to give up trying, sneak next door and fling herself on Gracie’s mercy. But the bed was soft, she felt quite warm and comfy, so she lay happily dreaming of Gordon, praying with all her strength that he would be kept safe and well, wherever he might be.

  It must have been shortly after midnight that Lou again became aware of her surroundings, realising that she must have slept after all and wondering what had woken her. The chiming of some distant clock perhaps. The room was dark. She couldn’t even make out any rim of light around the curtains and there wasn’t a sound, save for that of a distant barn owl and the rasp of someone breathing. Breathing!

  Even as this thought penetrated her sleep-befuddled brain, Lou felt the mattress sink as someone climbed into bed bedside her. Gracie, she thought, no doubt feeling lonely too, had come to join her. Lou whispered her name. ‘Gracie, is that you?’

  A large hand closed over her breast, and a rough, whiskery chin scraped across her face, seeking purchase on her lips. ‘What a little peach!’

  Lou screamed. Though afterwards she had no recollection of doing so, she must have hit him, because she was still fighting what seemed like a dozen arms, hands and skinny, hairy legs when Gracie stormed in. Weighing up the situation in a trice, she clobbered Colonel Driscoll over the head with one of his own brass warming pans which just happened to be handy. It barely stunned him, but he got the message.