by Gloria Cook
Never Just a Memory
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Copyright
Never Just a Memory
Gloria Cook
To Tracy and Simon, and ‘the boys’, Max and Midas
Chapter One
1943
Dusk was crowding in and the mist was turning into drizzly rain. The smells of damp earth and wild herbage were pungent and overpowering. The trees, bushes and the high hedgerows seemed to press in all around her. Jill Laity was used to the countryside but she felt she was in a strange, unfriendly world that might fall in on her at any moment and trap her. She told herself not to be silly. That it was simply the apprehension of venturing out into a new situation. The farm was going to be more than a new workplace and new home, it was the only place she could call home now. She mustn’t brood and get anxious. She would be fine when she reached her destination. She hoped.
Peering through the gloom she rounded another bend. From the information received a short time ago in the village of Hennaford, she should soon reach a fork in the road where she should veer to the right, then climb up a short, steep hill, and Ford Farm would be there; impossible to miss. The road straightened out and just ahead was yet another curving crook. Hopefully the fork would come into view after that. The lane tapered even more and dripping foliage from the banks brushed her from each side. If she was fated to meet a cart or motor vehicle in this impossibly narrow space there’d be nothing for it but to clamber up a hedge for safety, and then what a state she’d be in. She must already look a mess.
A sudden strong whiff of farmyard manure gave her hope that she was at last closing in on her goal. The nervousness of finding herself among strangers churned away inside her. It seemed she had been trudging along for ages. Tension tightened its grip. She would find the farm. Surely she would. She couldn’t have missed it. Could she? It was getting darker every second. Her torch, which she could only use pointed to the ground and covered with layers of tissue paper because the wartime restrictions forbade lights at night, was, unfortunately, packed in her bags.
Something snagged her coat. ‘Oh no!’ It was only a bramble but it took several moments to disentangle herself. She could only see a few inches ahead now. Praying she wouldn’t fall into a ditch, and perhaps ruin everything by breaking a leg, she kept to what she hoped was the middle of the lane. She stepped into something deep and smelly and disgusting. It was probably only a cowpat but it might be part of some dead creature. She mustn’t imagine silly things. Everything would look different tomorrow in the daylight and she would smile about this. Smile as she wrote to Ronnie about it.
She came to the fork in the road. There to the right, as stated, was the hill, stretching up like a big black shadow in front of her. Heaving a sigh of relief, she strode on. Then shrieked in fright and horror as she splashed into several inches of cold water. Now she knew, and had foolishly experienced, the source of Ford Farm’s name. How could she have been so stupid to forget about the ford and walk straight into it? She’d been told she must venture across a ford and that there was a footbridge at the side of it. The ground had suddenly sloped and she hadn’t cottoned on.
She backtracked clumsily. Putting her things down on the stone bridge, while balancing precariously, she shook the water out of her shoes. She should have worn her boots but she’d wanted to arrive looking smart. She crossed over the bridge with humiliating squelchy steps, then braced herself to begin the final part of her journey.
She was anxious now about the late hour. What sort of welcome would she receive at a time when every knock on a door was treated with dread of bad news and sometimes suspicion? She trudged on, the top of the hill seeming never to get any nearer. But finally, there it was, the rambling silhouette of a building, the farmhouse.
Her next step was cut short. She froze. A tall figure, dark and looming, was directly in her path.
Tom Harvey thought he was seeing a ghost. He was just slipping down to the village, a route so familiar that the darkness held no problem to him, when he’d looked up from the ground and in the dimming light he’d distinguished an outline. A hazy, still outline. A chill rode up his back. Biting his lip, he leaned forward, peering. The figure was small, not quite small enough to be a child. It had odd protrusions, and he wasn’t sure if it was a man or a woman. Or something else.
Clearing his throat, Tom ventured, ‘Hello, is someone there?’
His heart leapt when he received a reply. ‘Yes. Are you from the farm? I’m the new Land Army girl.’
‘Oh! Oh, good.’ Feeling a fool, for he could now make out a girl burdened with a suitcase, two bags and a respirator box, Tom went to meet her. ‘We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow. How did you manage to get here at this time of night?’
It was a great relief to meet a friendly person from Ford Farm. ‘I was fortunate enough to come across someone from the village at the railway station, a Mr Sidney Eathorne, the butcher, and he kindly offered me a lift and then gave me the directions here. My name’s Jill Laity.’ She did not clarify that the railway station was at Truro and that she had travelled up from Bosahan, the large house taken over on the Helford River as the Women’s Land Army training centre. Security dictated that place names should not be mentioned aloud.
‘You’re very welcome, Miss Laity. Here, let me take your things.’ Tom liked her soft, clear voice. The reason for his foray down to the village, an assignation with a local girl, could wait. ‘It’s cold for a June night. Come into the house. I’m afraid you’ve missed supper. Tilda the housekeeper’s out with the Sewing Guild, but my mother will make you a warming mug of Oxo or something. You need to meet her anyway, she owns the farm.’
‘Your mother? Then you must be Tom Harvey.’ Jill gladly relinquished her baggage, which had become like lead weights dragging down on her arms.
‘Keep close,’ Tom said. ‘Tuck your arm through mine so you don’t come a cropper in the dark. I’ll take you in through the front door.’
‘Thank you.’ This close she felt the good cloth of his clothes and smelled the brilliantine on his hair. Was he missing out on a drink in the pub which she had passed at the entrance to the lane because of her? She had to pick up her pace to keep up with his long, easy strides. ‘I know your mother owns the farm. The County Organizer of the Land Army informed me. I actually know a good deal about your family. I’m afraid Mr Eathorne proved to be quite a chatterbox. You’re the second son of the squire, but there isn’t a squire any more. Your father died twelve years ago and your mother has remarried. She’s now Mrs Perry Bosweld. Your older brother Will is an aerial photographer in the RAF; your cousin Jonny, a flyer. Your sister Lottie i
s the village beauty at seventeen years old. Your grandfather – on your mother’s side – is an ARP warden. He manages the farm.’
‘All correct. But I manage the farm now,’ Tom said quickly. It wasn’t a matter of vanity to inform her of that – he liked to impress any new girl. He wished Will was on leave. It would be fun to indulge in some light-hearted rivalry to win over this pleasing young woman. He was looking forward to taking a good look at her once they were inside.
‘Of course, Mr Harvey.’ Jill was worried she had made a blunder. Tom Harvey might not want to be thought of as a labourer.
‘Tom will do. We don’t go in for titles round here.’
She was relieved to hear that, to have learned how easy-going the farm manager was. ‘I’m Jill.’
‘Good.’ Good she was a friendly sort. ‘Your room’s in the older part of the house, but it’s directly over the kitchen, so it’ll be quite cosy.’
Jill was pleased there was a spare bedroom for her, it meant she didn’t have to billet elsewhere. It would make the very early starts, something her training hadn’t got her used to, and the long hours expected of her, a little easier.
‘Did you do anything before, Jill?’ From her well-toned voice he imagined her of the ilk who before the war had sat about prettily, learning dinner menus, waiting for a husband to come along who would provide her with a daily help and weekly gardener.
‘I was a telephonist. I lived with my grandmother. She died recently and my uncle and his family took over the house. There wasn’t really any room for me, so I decided to go off and train for something more useful for the war effort.’
‘You must be finding farm work very different.’
‘I’m doing my best to rise to the challenge.’ Jill’s reply was typical of her unassuming nature.
Tom chewed his lip, a habit of his when concerned. Lottie wasn’t happy about not having an experienced land girl. Jill Laity was rather refined and insignificant of build. Lottie was strong in constitution and will. She was no respecter of any form of male domination or anyone’s weaknesses, and she was often impossible. Some impatience and intolerance was probably ahead. Which was a pity, for Lottie would benefit from female company her own age, and Jill Laity seemed, if given the chance, that she might be a good influence on her. It still sometimes shocked Tom how Lottie would smoke, joke and even cuss like a man. It was a good thing it was Lottie’s turn to stay outside for fire-watching. It would give Jill time to settle in.
They turned off from the lane and were crunching over the wide gravelled approach to the house. In the last filter of daylight, Jill glimpsed that the front door was set in an imposing Victorian wing, and that the rest of the farmhouse, standing at a right angle, was at least a century older, and, presumably, looked over the yards. Altogether, the building was huge and imposing. Sidney Eathorne had said it had seen ‘some history’.
Tom opened the door and hurried Jill through it so as to allow out no more than a dash of light. While he ensured the blackout curtain was firmly back in place, Jill gazed down the long tiled passage, from which many rooms branched off. It was lit by a single lantern, no doubt to conserve electricity. The furniture, from a mahogany side table and a square gilt wood mirror to a walking-stick stand, was handsome but reassuringly unpretentious. There was a homely smell mixed with lavender polish.
‘Come through to the kitchen,’ he said, sweeping his eyes over her. He got a close enough look in the dimness to see she had marble-pale skin, pretty honey-blond hair, and an appealing, modest demeanour. When she gave a brief, shy smile, he was enchanted to discover a delicious dimple each side of her sweet mouth. He didn’t care for the brash, forward type of woman; this one was perfect. ‘I’ll take your things along with us. Your room is reached quicker by the back stairs. My room’s in the old wing too, by the way. I’ll go in first so you don’t get overwhelmed by the dogs.’
Tom went through the door at the other end of the passage. Jill followed him and felt the warmth in the kitchen reach out to her like a welcome. She was given only an instant to enjoy it. Tom suddenly dumped her things on the floor and shot off, crying, ‘Mum!’
Jill ran up behind him. ‘What’s happened?’ She found herself looking down on the inert form of a woman, lying next to a small armchair, near the range. A group of Jack Russells were fussing round her and trampling over some airforce-blue knitting.
‘She’s collapsed!’ Tom flung over his shoulder. ‘My stepfather should be in the den. Go back and shout for help.’
Chapter Two
Lottie Harvey flicked on the electric light and gazed down on the slumbering girl in the bed. She had the girl’s alarm clock in her hand, which was set to ring at 5 am. Any moment now. Jill Laity would be woken with a start and would, no doubt, search frantically for the clock to switch it off. But Lottie had it. Out of reach.
She smiled and smiled. Should she?
No. It would be cruel. Pressing down the alarm stopper, she put the clock back in its place on the little bedside cabinet. Then reaching out she shook Jill’s shoulder. ‘Wake up, sleepyhead! There’s no place for lie-abeds here.’
‘What?’ Jill shot up straight, her eyes wide and shocked, her hands clutching the covers up to her neck. ‘Oh, no! Have I overslept?’ She looked from the stranger who was towering over her to her alarm clock, then thumped a hand over her hammering heart. ‘No, I haven’t. What…?’
‘Sorry. Can’t resist a joke,’ Lottie said, grinning. ‘It drives Tom mad. It’s childish of me, I know, but his wiggings only make me do it all the more. I’m Lottie, if you haven’t already guessed. Didn’t get the chance to say hello to you last night because you went to bed immediately after the little family crisis. I never go up before midnight, I thrive on only three or four hours’ sleep. Thanks, by the way, for rushing to my mum’s aid. She told me how you fetched my stepdad and how you helped get her up to bed. Didn’t need the doctor. Perry – Pappa, I call him – was once an army surgeon. Come along then. I’m afraid you’re going to have to brave your first early start here. We’re in the middle of the corn harvest. The weather let us down yesterday but it’s going to be bright and sunny today. Are you shy? Want me to turn my back or leave the room?’
‘No, no, please stay.’ Jill threw back the covers and stepped out on to the square rug that covered most of the polished planked floor. She was just about recovering from her fright. She felt vulnerable in her thin winceyette nightdress, which had received some ‘make do and mend’ attention, and would have preferred her privacy, but more than anything she wanted to make friends with Lottie Harvey. The village butcher had mentioned that Lottie was high-spirited, a rebel, and that although her mother and stepfather indulged her, other parents wouldn’t tolerate such blatant disrespect. Tom had also said ominously last night, ‘You mustn’t take any notice of Lottie. You’ll get used to her.’ While sorry about her new employer’s ill health, Jill was glad to have made a good impression right from the start. Jill went to her uniform, which she had unpacked and hung up outside the single walnut wardrobe. She acknowledged she didn’t look as good in it as Lottie did in her brown coverall. Lottie had the height and gently curving figure that would look wonderful in rags. Her coppery-brown hair, of the same shiny tint as her mother’s and Tom’s, was tied back young-American style with a flag-red ribbon, and fell in the sort of extravagant waves Jill wished for herself.
‘How is Mrs Bosweld this morning? She came round quickly and told Mr Bosweld she’d merely fainted, but I could see he was worried. Tom was anxious.’ It had been evident how much affection and concern there was in this house. Something outside of Jill’s experience, for her grandmother had been conservative and undemonstrative and had rarely offered a word of encouragement.
‘She’s up and about, although she’ll be taking things a little easier than usual. Pappa’s insisting.’ Lottie was studying the few things Jill had placed on the deep window shelf. She looked Jill straight in the eye. ‘It’s turned out there’s nothing
wrong with her as such. After eleven years of marriage to Pappa, she’s expecting a baby.’
‘A baby? Mrs Bosweld’s…?’ Jill blushed a vivid red. She was not used to having such a thing mentioned in a patent manner. Obviously, few things embarrassed Lottie Harvey.
Lottie giggled, then sighed, becoming bored. Jill Laity seemed pleasant but she was dull, and probably strait-laced. Tom had reported in the sort of annoying male talk that spoke of intimate desire, ‘Give her a go, Lottie. Please. She’s got the sweetest nature and is a divine little thing.’
Impatiently, Lottie had demanded, ‘Since when did I pick on anyone? If she puts in a hard day’s work and never slacks, then I won’t be asking for anything more.’ Secretly, Lottie had hoped to make a friend, a confidante to chew over things like clothes and boyfriends. She’d never had one of the latter. The previous land girl had been a decade older and absolutely no fun.
Lottie shrugged off her disappointment. ‘Call my mum Mrs Em. Everyone does. Do you like your room?’
‘Oh, yes. It’s pretty and so comfortable.’ Jill’s reply held enthusiasm. In contrast to her dreary, puritan room at her old home, everything here was furnished in a distinctly feminine style. The curtains were chintz, there were lace-trimmed cushions on the upholstered chair and the walls were crowded with pictures of roses. When Tom had carried her things inside last night it had been necessary for him to duck his head under the overhead oak beams.
Lottie picked up the one photograph Jill had brought with her. ‘Who’s this, may I ask? Your brother?’
Jill went pink. ‘That’s my sweetheart, Ronnie. The only family I’ve ever known is my grandmother and Uncle Stanley. She died in February. I’ve never been close to my uncle. Even though he lived just across town, I only saw him and his wife and two young children once or twice a year.’
‘Ronnie’s in army uniform, I see. An officer.’ Lottie put the photograph down carefully, changing her opinion of Jill. She actually had a boyfriend. There were a hundred questions Lottie wanted to ask but she settled for something appropriate. ‘He has a nice smile. You’re not about to rush off and get married, I hope. Your predecessor suddenly did.’
