by Pam Weaver
In the stable, Tom had put Darby and Joan in their respective stalls. He measured out the oats like Seth had taught him and gave both animals their treat. He put a blanket over Joan’s back while he got the brushes out to groom Darby. Tom loved this time. He would talk softly to the horses with a freedom he found difficult to master with humans. They snorted contentedly and crunched their oats, but then Darby began to look around nervously. Tom talked soothingly, but the horse became more agitated. In her stall, Joan was restless.
When Tom came out of the stall to calm her, he got the shock of his life. ‘Mr Oliver!’ he cried.
Gilbert was standing in the doorway. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said, but his voice was menacing rather than friendly. Darby tugged on his rein, which was loosely wound round the rail in his stall, and snorted.
‘We thought you were coming home next month,’ said Tom, avoiding Gilbert’s eye. Mr Oliver came towards him and Tom backed away. It was only then that he saw the piece of wood in Mr Oliver’s hand and panicked. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ he said anxiously. ‘I’ve given them the oats like Vince said, and I was going to rub them down, that’s all.’
Mr Oliver kept coming. Tom’s foot knocked against a bucket of water and it fell over. ‘Now look what you’ve done, stupid,’ said Gilbert.
Terrified, Tom backed up some more and fell over something else right behind him. He heard Mr Oliver laugh as he went over, but then he hit his head on the post that divided the stalls.
As Janet walked into the farmyard, it was eerily quiet. She wondered vaguely if Tom and Vince were still in the fields. If they were, they’d made an awfully long day of it.
She felt dusty, hot and tired but contented. She, Shirley and Florrie had spent the day at Florrie’s new home. They’d cleaned it from top to bottom, and then right on time, Len’s furniture had arrived from his old place in London. They’d overseen its arrival, and by the time it was all in, Florrie had a nice little place. She’d wanted them to stay for fish and chips, but Janet had been anxious to get back to Lucy. Shirley said she’d prefer to go back as well because she still had packing to do. Florrie had been happy to stay in the cottage on her own, so the two girls had come home together.
As they’d sat on the bus, Janet had said, ‘I haven’t had a bath in yonks. Let’s both have one when we get in. I don’t mind going second.’
‘What about Tom?’ said Shirley.
‘We’ll get fish and chips from the village for everyone,’ said Janet, ‘and then we’ll send him to the pub with Vince. Oh! I forgot. He’s only sixteen.’
Shirley laughed. ‘Vince will look after him. He’ll love sitting outside with a lemonade and a bag of crisps. And I’ll go second in the bath.’
‘We’ll toss for it,’ said Janet.
It sounded like a wonderful idea. By the time they got off the bus, the plan was that Shirley would wait until the chip shop opened, at five-thirty, and bring their supper straight up to the farm, while Janet would go ahead and put some water in the copper to heat up ready for their bath. They’d eat supper, and while Janet put Lucy to bed, Shirley could get the tin bath down and fill it.
After calling in to pick up Lucy from Granny Roberts’s place, Janet wheeled the pram towards the farmhouse, but nobody was about. Lucy sat up and her mother tickled her chest, making her giggle. ‘Where have they gone?’ she said in a sing-song voice, making a game of it. ‘Where’s Tom? And where’s Uncle Vince?’
She pushed the pram inside and picked up her daughter. ‘Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you ready for bed.’ As she walked into the kitchen, she was suddenly confronted by the mess. Drawers had been tipped out and things moved about. The wall was bare. Something wasn’t right and then she realized the mantrap was gone and an open safe on the wall gaped at her. Janet took in her breath. Burglars? They’d been robbed.
Then a voice behind her said, ‘Hello, Janet,’ and her heart nearly stopped.
* * *
There was a small queue outside the fish-and-chip shop, which grew by the minute. It was very popular. Some said they were the best fish and chips for miles around. Shirley was tired and not in the mood for chatting, but in a small village like Angmering, it was inevitable that someone would speak to her. People were interested to know how her mother was getting on and delighted that she was staying in the area, even if it was in a village four and a half miles away. They asked her about her teacher training, although Shirley wasn’t sure if she shouldn’t put that on hold for a while. The terrible bombing in London hadn’t abated, and Hitler’s planes had dropped countless bombs for ten consecutive nights already. London wasn’t the only city to suffer. Plymouth and Southampton had taken a pounding as well.
She ordered her fish and chips, and waited while Monica coated them with salt and vinegar. The newspaper parcel was warm under her arm and she held it close to her body to try and keep them hot while she hurried home.
‘I bet it was quite a surprise seeing Mr Oliver back home,’ said Vi Cummings as they passed in the doorway.
‘Beg pardon?’ said Shirley.
‘My Bert said he bought him a pint in the Lamb at lunchtime,’ said Vi.
‘But he doesn’t get out until October,’ Shirley blurted out.
‘Well, that’s what my Bert said,’ Vi insisted.
‘Next, please,’ said Monica, and Vi moved up to the counter.
Shirley hurried on. She felt stunned. Surely Vi had made a mistake. October 22nd, that’s what they’d worked out. She counted on her fingers again. Yes, that was right, October 22nd. She was breathless by the time she turned into Dappers Lane and becoming increasingly worried. What if Mr Oliver was back home? Janet would have an awful shock.
Tom opened his eyes. He felt a bit sick, and his head hurt. It hurt a lot. He reached up and touched his forehead. There was an egg-sized lump right at the front on the left. He could feel the panic rising. He was hurt. What was he going to do? His eyes were all funny too. He couldn’t see properly. Was he going to die? He didn’t want to die. Where was he? As he tried to sit up, he heard Darby snort and remembered that he was in the stables. He tried to move his leg, but it was stuck somehow. He looked down and saw that it was encased in something. It looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t understand what it was. He tried to move his leg and whatever it was clanked. Darby didn’t like the noise, but Tom tried desperately to shake the thing off. Darby’s eyes grew wild and he made every effort to pull away from the rein that tethered him. He whinnied and snorted, stamping his feet. When his hoof came into contact with the metal, they both panicked, Darby rearing up and Tom screaming at the top of his voice, ‘Shirley, I don’t like it! Shirley, I’m stuck!’
She heard her brother screaming as she came along the lane. Dear God, what on earth was happening? She’d reached the gate when she saw Mr Oliver come out of the house holding a revolver. Against every instinct she had, Shirley ducked down by the gatepost, her feet in the ditch.
When Mr Oliver went into the stable, she held her breath. What should she do? Was he going to shoot Tom?
‘Keep this up,’ she heard Mr Oliver yell, ‘and I’ll put a bullet between your eyes right now, dummy.’
Tom stopped shouting, and a few minutes later, Shirley saw Mr Oliver come out of the stables. He looked around for a second or two and then went back into the house.
Shirley’s heart was in her mouth as she ran across the open yard towards the stables. The horses were agitated and she could hear Tom crying. Quietly she hurried beside the wall and slipped inside. He looked up and she put her finger on her lips to warn him not to say anything, but he was too upset.
‘Get me out, Shirl,’ he boomed. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘Shh, shh,’ she cautioned as she came to him.
‘I want to get up,’ he cried.
She pressed her hand over his mouth. ‘Shh, shh, Tom,’ she whispered. ‘Tom, listen to me. Don’t keep shouting. You don’t want him to come back, do you?’
Her br
other shook his head.
‘Then we must be quiet. Understand?’ She took her hand away from his mouth.
‘But I—’ he began again.
‘Don’t shout,’ she said. ‘I’ll get you out as soon as I can, but I can’t do it if you keep shouting.’
She was right beside him with her arm round his shoulder. He put his head on her chest and she was suddenly conscious that she smelled strongly of vinegar. The fish and chips were somewhere by the hedge, where she’d dropped them.
‘My head hurts, Shirl,’ he whimpered.
‘You’ve got a bit of a bump,’ she said, trying to make light of the huge swelling on his forehead, ‘but it’s going to be all right.’
‘It’s swollen,’ he said.
‘When we get indoors, we’ll put some butter on it and make it better.’
Now that she was next to him, she could see his predicament. His left leg was encased in the mantrap. She ran her fingers over it; there was no apparent way to get it off, but then of course there wouldn’t be. The Victorian poacher would have had to wait until the gamekeeper came with the key to release him. Tom was stuck in this thing until Mr Oliver produced the key.
Her brother had quietened down now. ‘He came back, Shirl. Mr Oliver, he came back.’
‘I know,’ said Shirley, ‘and I’ve got to get help.’
‘Don’t leave me, Shirl,’ said Tom, becoming anxious again. ‘Take me with you.’
‘I want to, Tom, but I have to go and get the key. I can’t get it off without the key. You do understand, don’t you?’
Tom nodded. ‘You should get it now.’
‘Yes,’ said Shirley. ‘That’s just what I thought. It doesn’t hurt you, does it? I know you can’t move, but nothing’s digging in, is it?’
‘I don’t like it, Shirl.’
‘I know, but I want you to stay quiet,’ she said. ‘All that shouting was upsetting Darby and Joan, wasn’t it?’
He nodded miserably. She stood to her feet and looked around. ‘Where’s Vince?’
Tom shrugged his shoulders.
‘I’m going now,’ said Shirley, ‘but I’ll be back as soon as possible.’
Tom snatched at her hand.
‘You keep talking to Darby and Joan,’ said Shirley. ‘You know how to make them calm.’
As if on cue, the horses snorted in their stalls. Shirley stood in the shadow by the stable door. Somehow, she had to alert somebody and get help. The farm was off the beaten track, so there was no alternative but to make a run for it. God only knew what had happened to Vince, and she dreaded to think what Mr Oliver was doing to Janet. The house seemed quiet enough, but the upstairs window was wide open, and someone was throwing her things out. Her nightdress and petticoat were draped over the drainpipe, and a pair of her knickers had caught on a roof tile. Everything else was in a heap on the ground below. Whatever had she done to the man to make him hate her so much?
She could feel her cheeks moistening with silent tears, but she brushed them angrily away. There was no time to dwell on personal feelings. It would take too long to run for help. Somehow or other, she had to get into the barn and grab her bike.
CHAPTER 35
As soon as Gilbert left the kitchen, Janet looked around desperately for a means of escape. She was tied to the arms of the chair, and her legs were tied as well. Lucy still sat in her pram, her eyes wide open with unshed tears. Every now and then, her body gave a little shudder. She sucked the middle two fingers of her right hand while she twiddled her hair with her left. It was something she always did when she was looking for comfort.
‘It’s all right, darling,’ said Janet as the door slammed. ‘Mummy’s here.’
The little girl’s chin quivered and Janet’s heart lurched. Every part of her wanted to hold her daughter, but first she had to find a way to free herself.
She managed to bump the chair along the flagstone floor towards the cutlery drawer, but what was the use? With both arms pinioned, even if she could get hold of a knife, it wasn’t physically possible to manoeuvre it in such a way as to cut her bonds. When Gilbert returned, he shouted again and dragged her chair back to its original position. The noise upset Lucy and she cried bitterly.
‘Shut that kid up,’ he snarled as Lucy cried again. He pulled a chair from under the table and sat down. Then turning to Lucy, he shouted, ‘Shut the hell up, will you? You’re driving me mad.’
It seemed to Janet that her best option was to try and calm him down. ‘If you stop yelling, she’ll stop crying,’ she said.
He turned to her, his eyes blazing.
‘She’s only little. You’re scaring her, that’s all,’ said Janet, her voice softening.
Gilbert put his head in his hands. ‘This is all your fault,’ he said. ‘None of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for you.’
All her fault? How could it be her fault? He’d come charging in here and smashed up everything and now he was trying to blame her. The man was beyond reason, out of control. Indignation stung her, but Janet forced herself not to retaliate. If she and Lucy were to survive this ordeal, she was going to have to think very carefully before she spoke. She might be physically helpless and tied to a chair, but she was still in every sense of the expression fighting for her life.
‘What do you want, Gil?’ she said quietly. ‘Just tell me and I’ll give it to you.’
‘I want that witch out of here, for a start,’ he spat.
‘Who? Shirley? You should have said. Well, she’s going soon. She’s starting her teacher training.’
He scraped the chair back and stood up. ‘Then I’ll help her pack, shall I?’
He went upstairs, and a couple of seconds later, Janet saw something white float past the window, then Shirley’s cardigan and her shoes. Several other items of clothing followed, including Shirley’s petticoat and her underwear. Gilbert reappeared. ‘That’s got her sorted,’ he said triumphantly.
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Gil?’ said Janet. ‘You look all done in. If you untie me, I’ll make a fresh pot.’ She could tell he was tempted. Don’t push it, she told herself. She shrugged. ‘It was just a thought.’
Shirley made it to the barn, but as she grabbed the handlebars of her bike, she heard a low moan. For a second, she froze, but when it happened again, she turned slowly. ‘Vince? Is that you?’
She heard a rustle and put down the bike. She found him in the big toolbox, where he’d fallen. He seemed dazed, and there was an ugly and bloody wound on the left side of his cheek. She helped him out and somehow or other managed to get him to the straw, where she laid him down. He was shivering, and although his eyes were open, he didn’t seem to know what was going on.
‘Who did this to you? Was it Mr Oliver?’ He didn’t seem to comprehend her questions, and besides, moving him had aggravated the wound on his face and made it bleed. She only had her handkerchief to offer to stem the flow of blood. The gash was going to need a lot of stitches to put it right, which made it all the more imperative that she get help.
Once he was stretched out on the straw, she looked around for something to cover him. The only things to hand were some empty sacks. She unfolded a couple and put them over his shaking body. She wondered about fetching him a drink, but the tap was outside the back door and far too risky.
‘I’m going to get help, Vince,’ she told him. ‘Try to rest and I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
She mounted the bike, and with her heart pounding like the clappers, Shirley rode out of the barn. She turned her head anxiously towards the house. So far, so good. It all looked quiet. No sign of Mr Oliver, but then someone grabbed the handlebars of the bike and she came to an abrupt halt.
‘Oh no, you don’t,’ he hissed.
Shirley wobbled furiously and fell off, the bike falling on top of her. She didn’t need to see who it was. She recognized his voice instantly. She was trying to scramble away as he picked up the bike and tossed it to one side. Mr Oliver grabbed her foot and Sh
irley screamed. He was dragging her along the ground. The gravel tore at the flesh on her other leg and her elbows as she tried to stand up. She kicked out, but it was hopeless. A shadow appeared in the doorway of the barn and Vince aimed a blow on Mr Oliver’s back with a hoe. He dropped her foot and it gave Shirley the chance to get to her feet. She heard a cry of pain behind her and guessed that Vince had paid dearly for his intervention.
Shirley aimed for the bike, but as she mounted it, Mr Oliver grabbed the back wheel. She stumbled off and found herself inside the stable door, with Mr Oliver hard on her heels. Her breath was coming in short, panicky gasps, and the fear made her feel sick. She felt as if her chest would explode, but all she wanted was to get as far away from him as possible.
Tom began calling her name. She could sense the fear in his voice too. Then she fell again. The horses were to her right, agitated and terrified. They whinnied and snorted, spinning their hoofs in the stall and jerking their heads away from the restraining reins. Mr Oliver bent to grab her foot again, but as he did so, Darby leaned on his front legs and kicked out with his back legs. There was a loud crack as the full force of his hoof came into contact with Mr Oliver’s head. He spun away with a scream, holding his face.
Shirley recovered herself quickly. ‘Tom, it’s all right,’ she said, glancing over at Mr Oliver writhing in pain on the straw. There was a good chance he wouldn’t recover quickly from that blow, but she didn’t want to take any chances. ‘I’m going to get help and then I’ll unlock that thing.’
Mr Oliver hadn’t got up, but she could see his face was already grotesquely swollen. Shirley grabbed her bike and rode away like a bat out of hell. Reaching the gate, which way should she turn? There was a telephone box in the centre of the village near the fish-and-chip shop, but there was also one on the corner of Swillage Lane and Long Furlong. All things considered, she decided to go for that one. As she rode past Patching Pond, she suddenly understood why Elizabeth had gone
