by Milly Adams
She watched Hannah approaching. Her sister slopped along, kicking at tufts of grass, then stopped, scowled and examined the sole of her sandal, probably because she’d trodden in sheep poo. Hannah wore a suitably arty dress she would have made herself, and a long striped cardigan with a vivid red shawl, and was so beautiful she could have walked out of a painting. Too beautiful, too clever and talented to be wasting her time on the Sids of this world.
Bryony touched her jacket pocket. Yes, the present Sid had given her for Hannah last evening when he arrived at Combe Lodge was still there. It was a welcome-home gift, he had told Bryony, smirking.
‘I don’t want to give it to her, Adam.’
‘But you must, Bee.’ He had turned to her, a light sheen of sweat coating his forehead, his pallor deeper.
She said, ‘Look at you. I should never have agreed to you coming. Let’s get you to the terrace and you can have a doze or you’ll never be a hundred per cent and your mum will chase me round the kitchen with a frying pan.’
He shrugged, ‘Maybe, just maybe I have a mind of my own and I decided to come. But now we have other things to deal with.’ Hannah had run out of tufts to murder and had halted on the edge of the runway, looking at them, her long dark hair streaming out behind her.
Bryony buttoned up her leather jacket against the wind, but also against her sister. Adam murmured, ‘Don’t worry, I’m here beside you.’
She wished he meant that in another way.
Chapter Two
Bryony straightened her flying jacket and looked at Adam, who smiled at her. ‘Go on, scaredy cat. You can throw an aircraft around the sky, so what’s so difficult about a sulky sister who’s been kicking hell out of a few tussocks. And let’s face it, you’ve had a lifetime to get used to it.’
Bryony held out her arms to Hannah, who was walking towards them again with Aunt Olive a few yards behind. ‘Hello, Hannah, it’s such good news about art college.’
Her sister stopped a yard from her, her arms akimbo, her chin in the air, saying, ‘Where’s the lightweight easel? You know I wanted to paint on the spot.’
Bryony let her arms drop. Aunt Olive had skirted them, eyes to the ground, and was with Uncle Thomas by the aeroplane in no time at all. She helped him fiddle with something that did not need attention. Rosie bounded over to Hannah, who waved her off so the dog came to Bryony and Adam again.
Bryony said, ‘Well, I’m very well, Hannah, thank you for not asking, and hope you are, too . . .’ Then she cursed herself, knowing she’d just stoked whatever fire was burning today.
She took a deep breath and tried again, smiling at her sister. ‘I thought that, as you telephoned to say you were coming back to build up a portfolio for art college, you would want the easel at Combe Lodge.’ She stooped and pulled Rosie’s ears, while the dog whined her pleasure.
Hannah sighed and looked at Adam. ‘Well, Adam, you’re looking better. I would have thought you’d be back doing your bit, not joyriding.’
Adam flushed. ‘I’m almost there, Hannah. Won’t be long.’ His eyes were cold.
Aunt Olive had joined them, and Uncle Thomas was approaching, dusting off his hands. His farm overalls were even dirtier than Bryony’s.
‘Time for lunch, I think,’ he said into the silence.
Aunt Olive said, ‘Not so fast, Tommy m’lad. We girls will head for the kitchen and sort out the final bits, but Clive will be carting in the potatoes, vegetables, some salad and onions any minute now. You can help Adam load them on to the Dragonette. The onions will smell, Bee, but what’s a bit of a pong amongst passengers? Bribe them with a few, and all will be well.’
She put an arm around both sisters, and headed for the gateway, calling over her shoulder, ‘You boys take Rosie with you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ shouted Adam, saluting.
Aunt Olive laughed, ‘That’s enough of your cheek, Adam Cottrall.’ She shook Bryony slightly. ‘Oh Bee, how pleased your mother will be to see you. She’s torn to think that Hannah is going home, but thrilled she’s off to college. She will miss you both, but wants to stay here for longer. The doctor is pleased her consumption seems to be responding to rest and sunshine, and is still in remission.’
Hannah made Bryony jump, as she shouted, ‘She’s not just in remission, she’s completely better, whatever you or that old fuddy-duddy Doctor Clements think. And anyway, I didn’t actually promise I was going to college. Why does everyone keep on about it?’
Bryony stared at her, but Aunt Olive’s desperate chatter built a bulwark between the two sisters, and for now, that was a blessing. Bryony was aghast. So, it was a lie to get back to Sid, was it? What on earth was she going to do about this girl? She’d refused to go back to school to matriculate, she refused to understand that their mother had TB, she chose boyfriends who were no good. She had said she wanted to come back, but now she wanted her easel here, so was she going to rush off a few sketches within the next couple of hours?
She touched Sid’s present. Should she chuck it into the hedge they were passing? Was it some sort of message between the two of them? What the hell was going on?
They turned into Haven Farmhouse, using the front path rather than tiptoeing around the edge of the farmyard muck to the back door. Bryony said, ‘How posh, the front door.’
‘I wanted you to see and smell the garden. Isn’t it glorious? I’ve been trying to persuade Hannah to paint it for me. I could hang her picture on the wall, but she prefers to go out and find “intriguing views”, don’t you, darling, which is probably much better for her portfolio.’
Either side of the crazy-paving path the lavender was getting into its stride, and despite the wind the bees were collecting pollen. As Bryony watched, one almost staggered on take-off because it carried so much baggage on its legs. The pinks were flowering, a few tulips were hanging on, and the groups of polyanthus were doing well. Forget-me-nots cascaded down a bank. ‘Glorious,’ Bryony murmured, running her hand along the tops of the lavender, releasing the scent. Aunt Olive led the way into the house, and Bryony turned to Hannah. ‘I don’t understand. Why do you still need the easel if you’re coming home?’
‘Oh stop going on and on all the time, Bryony. You’re not my mother. Just let me alone.’ She stalked up the stairs. ‘Call me when lunch is ready, Aunt Olive.’
Bryony called after her. ‘That’s no way to talk to your aunt, and what’s more, you haven’t answered my question.’
Hannah yelled, ‘All right, all right, please, please, please, Aunt Olive.’
There was the slam of a bedroom door. As Bryony started up the stairs in hot pursuit her mother called from the sitting room, ‘Bryony, stop thundering about and come and say hello. You do wind poor Hannah up so.’ Bryony stopped and slowly returned to the hall. At the doorway to the kitchen Aunt Olive raised her eyebrows, and shook her head.
Bryony mouthed, I’m sorry.
Aunt Olive hurried to hug her, saying into her hair, ‘You have nothing to be sorry for. One day Hannah will grow up, and my sister, your poor fragile mother, will see sense. She feels sorry for the girl for losing her father so young, and for being there when he fell off that damned horse and died. She puts all this behavioural nonsense of Hannah’s down to that, and perhaps it is partly that, along with a dollop of spoiling from an early age. I wonder sometimes if Hannah is frightened because one parent has already died and the other is fragile and there is the prospect that she could be alone.’
‘But she wouldn’t be alone, I’ve always been here for her, and would continue to be.’ For a moment Bryony let herself be held by this lovely woman, who smelt of the rosemary she had used on the roast potatoes. ‘If only she’d let me.’
Her aunt kissed her cheek. ‘Perhaps she sees you as providing stability so she has to test you, again and again, to prove that you will in fact never let her down. Oh, I don’t know. I’ve not had children, so what do I know? I just nurture beasts, and then eat them.’
Both women laughed, loud and
long. Aunt Olive dusted her apron down. ‘I think you need to prepare yourself for the fact that she might not return after all. She met Peter Andrews a few days ago. He paints too, I gather, but only as a hobby. His dad owns Netherby Farm and he’s very handsome. A nice, wholesome lad.’
The two women looked at one another. Bryony sighed. Yet another man, but at least it wasn’t Sid – at least it was someone her aunt knew.
Bryony’s mother called from the sitting room, ‘Come and give me a hug, Bryony. For all I know you’ve had your hair shaped and you’ve smartened yourself up since I saw you last week. Miracles do happen.’
Aunt Olive whispered, ‘She doesn’t mean to be like this. She loves you.’ She led the way into the beamed room. Bryony knew that indeed her mother loved her, but also that she did mean what she’d said. There was a glowing fire in the grate, even in this weather. ‘Your mother feels the cold, my dear. Don’t you, Mary?’ Aunt Olive left.
Sitting to the right of the fireplace, her mother smiled and lifted her hand in a wave, then grew serious. ‘Oh dear, Bryony, must you always look such a scruff? Just look at those overalls. Is that oil?’
Bryony smiled. ‘Yes, as it so often is, and has been, and always will be, I fear. Uncle Eddie’s away, Adam isn’t well enough to help with the aircraft maintenance, his friend Eric is working on a boat engine for someone so can’t, therefore I have to in order to earn a crust for us all. It will be even worse soon, because I have to paint the hangar roof with camouflage. Just imagine me then, with spots of paint to add to the picture.’ She thought her mother would faint. Bryony crossed the threadbare carpet and kissed her mother’s upturned face, then knelt by her chair, taking her hand. ‘How are you, Mum? I wanted to talk to the doc but he scooted off.’
‘I’m fine, just tired. He seems pleased, and I am absolutely no worse. Jersey is good for me. How is April? And what about Eddie?’
From the kitchen Aunt Olive called, ‘Get her to eat more, please, Bee. Doctor Clements says she needs butter, milk and all good things, and rest, all of which we should be able to manage, even when the rationing bites more deeply.’
Her mother’s skin was almost translucent, and Bryony felt fear clutch at her as it usually did where this woman was concerned. Her mother said, ‘The doctor left you a note. I’ve read it, and he says what he always says, and what Olive has just said: rest, food and fresh air are the ticket. So I’m obeying. After lunch I will sit out on the terrace in the sun. It’s what my mother used to do. I can see her sitting there now. Sometimes your father did too, when we came on holidays and before he . . .’ She laughed. ‘Well, obviously before he died, or it would be daft, wouldn’t it? A corpse sitting there, enjoying the sun.’
Bryony had heard all this before. It was her mother’s way of showing that she was over her husband’s death. She wasn’t. Her mother said, stroking Bryony’s hair back behind her ears, ‘There, that’s more tidy. Now, my dear, listen to the good news. Hannah might be staying here with us after all. She has found herself a nice young man, the son of Tommy’s farmer friend. He so much better than that Sid, who was too old of course, but on the other hand, Sid has money, which is in his favour, don’t you think?’
Bryony did not, but said nothing and neither did she sigh, though she ached to do so.
During lunch Hannah was silent, and no one brought up the return journey; not even Bryony’s mother, who wasn’t known for her tact. Instead she picked at her gammon. The talk was desultory, with Adam seemingly struggling to stay awake. There was an apple pie for pudding, and cream. Aunt Olive poured some on Mary’s plate despite her protestations and she ate a little.
After lunch, Adam took Mary’s arm. ‘Let the two of us pale and interesting beings totter to the terrace and sleep off this feast, shall we, Mrs Miller?’
She laughed slightly. ‘Indeed, why not.’
Uncle Thomas beckoned to Bryony. ‘Come and see Jemima. She’s done us proud with a grand litter of piglets.’
Hannah followed Aunt Olive into the kitchen to help with the washing up, smiling slightly at Bryony. ‘Mum told you that my plans might have changed?’
Again Bryony stopped herself from sighing and smiled instead. ‘Yes. Just let me know before we take off. Well, obviously.’
Uncle Thomas left the house almost at a run, and ploughed through the middle of the farmyard, though Bryony made her way around on the concrete slabs which ran around the edge, mindful of treading muck into the cockpit. At the old and worn out sty within the barn, which housed piglets scuttling about, Uncle Thomas hustled her past without a sideways glance and only stopped when he reached the far end. Bryony said, ‘I thought you’d have her out in the pig area on the other side of the house?’
He just stared ahead. She followed his line of sight. There appeared to be a new wall smeared with cow dung behind a pile of hay bales. ‘You see, the dung ages brickwork, makes it look as though it’s been here for bloody years,’ he said, looking around. ‘I’ll brush it off in due course, when it’s done its job.’ He found a niche in one of the bricks and pulled. It opened and proved to be a brick facing on a door leading into a large area. She hadn’t noticed that the barn had lost some space, and said so.
Uncle Thomas grinned. ‘Good, that’s as it should be.’ He looked round again, then pulled her into the new space, which was lit by a skylight. There was a sty and a grazing area. ‘It’s to pop in a pig in case things go wrong in France. We’re so close, the Nazis might come here, and if they do, rationing will tighten, and I want to be able to feed friends and family. Not to make money, you understand. I can hide a young ’un when authorities nose about. Now, don’t you be telling anyone, not even young Hannah. She blabs, you see. Don’t mean anything by it, but she does.’
He was pulling her out again, and shutting the door. Bryony thought of Sid the Spiv, but then shook her head. Her uncle was not a black marketeer – he would share his bounty with those in need.
He was hurrying out now, and back into the rear porch while she took the path around the yard. He flopped off his boots, while she wiped hers on the doormat. Without waiting for her he trotted down the corridor into his study, his stockinged feet leaving sweaty footprints on the tiles.
The study was cool. He rushed to the inglenook, where he stooped, peering up the chimney and calling her over. ‘See here.’
She joined him and looked up. There was a patch of deeper darkness on the left-hand side. ‘It’s a hidey-hole for the wireless. If the Nazis come there’ll be a time when they won’t want us knowing what’s going on in the world. I’ll put a wireless up there, brick it up part way, and leave room for the leads. I can listen on my headset. Now, tell no one, you understand. It’s safer that way.’
They withdrew and stood, looking at one another. She saw the determination in her uncle’s eyes, and the fear. Bryony’s mouth was dry, her heart was dithering, her back ran with cold sweat. ‘Do you think they will come? Really? Should you come back with me, all of you? Now, this minute? I can make another run when I take the passengers home.’
Her uncle shook his head. ‘No, I think our lads will fight and beat ’em back so it’s just in case. You know how I like to think ahead. Either way, there’ll be time for you to fetch your mother and Hannah, but your aunt and I will never be chased out of Jersey, you mark my words. They can come and tear it down, but when they’re gone – and they will go – we’ll just build it back up.’
They smiled at one another, though Bryony felt sure the smile hadn’t reached her eyes. Hannah said from the doorway, ‘I’ve come to tell you, Bee, that I won’t be coming back with you. Sorry to mess you about, so next time you come, bring the easel, would you? Please.’
Beside her, Uncle Thomas tensed. Bryony asked the question he didn’t. ‘Have you been there long? You should have joined us. There’s a bird’s nest in the chimney and we think it’s in use. So no one should light a fire.’
Hannah shrugged. ‘All right. But I never set the fires, do I? Uncle Thomas l
ikes to do it. So, just bring the easel, would you? You’re taking people back in a week, aren’t you, and I can manage until then.’
They were over the coast of Devon by four that afternoon, and by now the smell of onions was so pungent the cabin had fallen silent. The Smiths and Bennetts who had holidayed together in the second of Uncle Thomas’s holiday houses were on their way home, pleased at the thought of a couple of pounds of onions each and some potatoes. Her Aunt Olive was a wise woman.
Adam was quiet, exhausted, but he had insisted the day had saved him from terminal boredom. Bryony kept rigidly on course so that the ack-ack on the coast at Exmouth wouldn’t think she was hostile, but they were so used to her Dragonette on its regular route that they waved. She waggled her wings. Soon she was on the approach to the Combe Lodge landing strip and yet again she felt her helmet being lifted, and Adam saying, ‘I’m not sure I will be able to face onions ever again.’
Those in the cabin laughed. ‘You’re not the only one, mate,’ called Mr Smith. Bryony instructed them: ‘Straps on please, Adam will check.’ He did and gave her the thumbs up. She adjusted her helmet and brought the Dragonette into the wind to begin her approach, easing down. The wind was buffeting but not too much. Gently now, gently – but as she was about to touch down she saw a child, a girl, rushing from the bushes to the left, across the strip, her hair streaming out like Hannah’s. Adam saw too. ‘Christ, Bee. Yank the nose up.’
Ignoring him, she pushed the throttle levers forward and pulled steadily back on the yoke. Climbing out she eased back the throttle, banked left to go round again, checking the runway, which was now clear. ‘Sorry about that, everyone, bit of a problem on the landing strip.’
She focused, although her whole body longed to go into shock. She came round into the wind again, always looking, but the child had completely disappeared, almost as though she had been an apparition. Gently gently, and down we go, and again it was a feather-light landing. Her hands were shaking, and as she removed her helmet and hung it up, she said quietly to Adam, ‘If I’d yanked the nose up immediately we could have stalled, and then what would have happened to the blessed onions?’
