by Gloria Cook
‘We haven’t thought that far ahead,’ Jill said, washing her face in the cold water left from last night on the washstand. She buried her face in the towel. Her feelings for Ronnie were private.
‘Is he overseas?’
‘No. He’s currently at the light infantry depot at Bodmin. Not too far away but, of course, I get very little chance to see him.’ Loneliness ate a path into Jill. She ached for the only security she had left. Of being with the caring, intelligent boy she had grown up as neighbour to, of planning a future together. Whenever difficulties fell on her she replaced it with the last image she had of Ronnie, as he’d left her at the end of his last leave. His brave smile hadn’t hid the little amount of fear in his soft blue eyes. He felt he wasn’t a natural leader of men, and sooner or later he’d have to serve on a battlefield. She prayed ceaselessly for him to prevail.
Lottie observed her mingled hopes. ‘You must worry about him. It’s a shame about your grandmother. Mine died last year. I loved her dearly. Now, Jill, get a move on! Tom’s bringing in the herd. I’m off to get the milking shed ready. Mum has said, as this is your first day, to let you off any work until after breakfast. She’s a softie. But I’m not.’ She wagged a finger, partly in playfulness, partly in warning. ‘One last word, Jill. I know you’re spoken for, but watch out for Tom. He’s good-natured but he’s a heartbreaker. Ask any girl in the village.’
Jill nodded to show she had taken everything in. She couldn’t imagine there was anything ruthless about Tom. He had an arresting smile, just like his sister did, but there was a boyishness about him, and, so Jill thought, a gentleness too. As she made haste to get ready to go downstairs, she was amazed at how uplifted she felt. Lottie Harvey bubbled with a raw energy, and although she obviously wasn’t a sufferer of fools, she seemed thoughtful and fun-loving. After pulling her khaki overall on over her Aertex shirt and knee socks, she gazed into the small mirror on the wall and fastened her tie with its Women’s Land Army badge. Soon, she might get the chance to stride off down to the village wearing her knee breeches, green V-necked pullover, and her round-brimmed, somewhat unflattering hat. She couldn’t hold back a burst of joy. She felt the way Ronnie made her feel, that she was somebody, that she had a purpose, was even a little important.
She switched off the light and threw back the heavy curtains to meet the burgeoning daylight, and as she flung open the window, every last scrap of boldness left her. A burst of confused noises, that in her anticipation had escaped her before, joined forces with the busy scene below to scare and taunt her. While calling and cajoling, Tom and two other men, presumably his grandfather and the cowman, and a border collie, were guiding a long line of brown and brown-and-white cattle into the outer yard from the lane. Sheds and outhouses and barns and farm machinery straggled seemingly into the distance and animals and poultry sprawled everywhere. Fields and meadows stretched away in all directions.
How different, quieter and safer, most noticeably, her life was going to be here than in the dignified house in Melvill Road, at Falmouth. Day and night, the harbour underwent regular raids from German Stukka bombers, and residential parts also took hits. The docks and boatyards were a frenzy of activity, repairing and constructing and loading ships. The United States Navy was there in force and had erected a huge Nissen hut and brought in the largest crane ever seen. There, and all along the river banks of the tidal estuary, they were building strange-looking boats, obviously landing craft, with ridged ramps that would enable troops to walk off straight on to the shore – enemy-occupied shores. The endless racket and constant bustle had been wearisome and unnerving, not least because it all pointed to a secret that was too big a secret to be kept, that these were preparations to open up a Second Front, to liberate Europe, an undertaking so vast it was beyond the comprehension of most. It made one feel insecure and apprehensive yet confident and proud all at the same time. The contrast here of ancient hills and trees and farmland, the tip of the tower of the parish church just in view, rather than soothing Jill, made her feel an outsider.
Lottie was striding away from the back door between her mother and stepfather, their arms all linked together. Jill had found both the Boswelds open and friendly last night, but Emilia Bosweld, who was a striking-looking woman, had an air of strength and resolution, and Perry Bosweld had a hint of authority. It had been impossible not to take in his dark, amazingly good looks. He walked slowly with a roll to the right, having lost half his right leg in the last war. Jill had been surprised at the contrast in her new employer’s ordinary accent and her husband’s pleasant cut-glass one – Mrs Bosweld – Mrs Em – had apparently, as Jill’s grandmother would have put it, married twice above her station. The strong affection between the Boswelds, their deep connection, was distinct. The family happiness, the prospect of a new baby to be born into it, cut into Jill and made her feel even further out of place.
Moments of unreality swept over her. Early loss of her parents had robbed her of confidence and she had often fought to feel she existed, that she was alive and real and mattered. Then she lifted her head high. She mattered to Ronnie and the war effort. ‘I’ll make good with my life or I’ll die trying,’ she whispered the vow.
The scrubbed pine table in the kitchen was long and wide, and laid for several people. A plate of thinly cut bread, spread with just a scrape of butter, sat importantly in the middle, making Jill’s mouth water with longing. Should she sit down at the table? Call hello, see if anyone was about? She smoothed at her rolled-under, shoulder-length hair, which she had tied back with a scarf, then she made sure she had a hanky in her overall pocket. These moments of being new somewhere were always excruciatingly awful.
A collection of cats lolled and slept on the hearth rug. Jill had always wanted a pet but never been allowed one. She bent to the nearest cat, which was washing its paws. It was set a little apart, as if chief of the clan. It was thin, its rough black coat showing patches of rusty plum. Jill reached for it and the cat lashed out, clawing her wrist. ‘Ow!’ She shot back. Drops of blood cascaded over the back of her stinging hand.
‘No, no! You mustn’t touch he!’ a horrified female voice cried from behind her.
‘I’m sorry.’ The sudden attack and her foolishness left Jill trembling. She clamped her hanky over the wound, fearing she’d drip blood on the rug.
‘Aw, he’s hurt you.’ The woman had come out of the walk-in larder and was carrying a large crock, labelled ‘salt’. ‘He’s not supposed to be in here. Motley creature. He’s a yard cat but he keeps sneaking in. It’s Mr Tom’s fault, he’s too soft with him. Lazarus! Out with ’ee. Go on! Get!’ She put the crock down and opened the door to the back kitchen and then the stable door beyond it to the yard, then after coming back she flapped the brilliant-white apron around her stout body at the cat. It ignored her until she fetched a broom, then it hissed at her as she chased it outside. Back inside again, she said, ‘He’s called Lazarus because he keeps escaping the fate he deserves, though I s’pose we shouldn’t wish no harm on one of God’s creatures.’
Dabbing at the scratch, Jill repeated, ‘I’m sorry. Are you Tilda? I’m Jill.’
‘Tilda Lawry.’ The housekeeper straightened the turban that covered most of her scraped-back, greying ginger hair. ‘Sit yourself down then, maid. Just as well I’ve fetched the salt. You’d better clean that hand. My, you’re a little thing. The last land girl we had was built like an ox. I come here to work in the Great War. Never thought we’d have another on the same catastrophic scale. Sometimes I can hardly believe it’s happening again. Mrs Em lost her brother Billy at Passchendaele, now she’s worrying over her eldest boy Will, who’s named after him. And there’s Mr Tristan Harvey’s son, Jonny, to worry about too. You come from Falmouth I hear, Jill? They’re always in for it there, poor souls. Hope you didn’t suffer anything bad there, eh?’
‘So far the family house has been spared. Some of the surrounding villages have fared even worse than the town because of the mishits. No deta
ils were reported in the newspapers, of course, but word gets round.’
‘’Tis wise to keep our lips buttoned,’ Tilda said approvingly. While putting a glass bowl of hot, salted water on the table, she gazed at Jill’s hands, which were a little roughened, small and well formed. ‘You speak well. Not brought up to work on the land, I s’pose?’
Jill wanted to say she had a medical certificate to prove she was capable of hard physical work. She sat on the form and sank her hand into the salt water and forced herself not to flinch at the intensified stinging. ‘When I get my ration book adjusted, should I give it to you or Mrs Em?’
Tilda placed a cup of weak, stewed tea – rationing meant tea leaves were used several times – beside the bowl, then she leaned forward with her hands on her knees and stared at Jill. ‘I do the shopping. If you don’t mind me asking, are you sure you’re old enough to leave home? You look very young.’
‘But I’m twenty!’ Jill protested. She hated the habitual comments she received about her age.
‘Mmm. You’re as pale as a lily and as thin as a yard of pump water. Mind you, a month or two out working in all weathers should pink you up, and rationing or no, I’ll find something to put a bit of weight on you.’
There was a loud rap on the back kitchen door. Frowning, Tilda’s head shot round in that direction. ‘What on earth? People don’t usually hammer like someone gone mazed.’
A man came in. He was dark and very good looking. For an instant Jill thought it was Perry Bosweld, but this man had an arrogant demeanour. The sight in his left eye was marred and a small scar ran above it. From his clothes he appeared to be a farmer.
‘Well! Mr Ben! Fancy seeing you here. It’s been ages.’ Tilda folded her plump hands primly, then added in a tart tone, ‘You don’t usually darken Mrs Em’s door.’
Jill stopped bathing her hand and stood up. Although this man wasn’t welcome here he somehow commanded respect.
He glanced at her, an eyebrow raised, then rounded on Tilda. ‘I’d no wish to come but there’s bad news. Jonny’s plane has crash-landed.’
Chapter Three
‘What? Oh, no! I’ll run and fetch Mrs Em!’ Tilda hurried off.
The man stepped smoothly out of her way. Jill guessed he was in his early forties, about the same age as Mrs Em. He had a powerful build and a tremendous sense of presence. ‘Your name? I take it you’ve just arrived?’ She took exception to his bluntness and the way he was looking her over. She stared at him. ‘I’m Jill Laity. I’m sorry to hear you’ve brought bad news.’
‘Thank you.’ He smiled. It was an indolent smile, a handsome smile. The stiffness about his mouth made Jill think he didn’t smile often. Why was he willing to be friendly with her? Perhaps he shared Tom’s penchant for women. ‘I’m sorry. I must have sounded rude. Jill? A pretty, uncomplicated name. I’m Ben Harvey.’ He approached her with quick, athletic strides. ‘Uncle of Tom and Lottie. And to Jonny, whom I’ve just mentioned. I own Tremore Farm on the other side of the village, and a lot of other property and businesses locally and in Truro. I don’t have the benefit of family working for me but I do have three Land Army girls. You’re very welcome, Jill, to call on your colleagues.’ Now he showed no humour at all. ‘You won’t find any agreeable companionship in the females here. They’re tenacious, and my niece is a bolshie little fiend. You’ll need to be wary of her.’
Obviously there was a rift between the two branches of the family that lived in Hennaford. This man’s boastfulness, the inflexibility she sensed in him, made Jill reason much of it had to be his fault. ‘Really? I’ve found Lottie to be very pleasant.’
He shook his head as if amused. ‘You’ll learn.’
A crowd came in all at once. The Boswelds, who were holding hands, and Tom, Lottie and Tilda. Ben Harvey’s stance became confrontational. Jill didn’t like him staying so close to her, giving the impression they had become familiar. She shuffled several steps away, but watched, fascinated somehow, as he, declining to speak to the members of his family, flicked open a slim gold case and nonchalantly, in blatant disdain, tapped the tip of a cigarette on the case.
‘Well? What’s happened?’ Emilia Bosweld tossed her hands towards him. Displeasure with her former brother-in-law sang out of every strong angle of her face. Jill saw that she wasn’t the least bit intimidated. Although dressed in an old shirt, trousers and boots, she was wholly feminine. Combs swept back her wealth of hair in flattering swathes. She was statuesque, stately, something of a goddess. Here was a woman who would never be ignored. ‘Is Jonny…?’
‘No. He was lucky though. He has a broken collarbone, cracked ribs and a small head wound.’ Every word Ben Harvey uttered was given with a begrudging grimace. ‘His plane took a hit over enemy territory – Berlin, no doubt – but, thank God, as an experienced pilot, he managed to shunt it back on three engines and underbelly damage all the way to the airfield, then get his crew out before the flames reached them. It happened two nights ago. Tris has just heard. The telephone lines are a bit dodgy and he asked me to pass on the news.’ He advanced towards the gathering, forming impatient sweeps with his large hands – in effect ordering them out of his way. ‘I’ve done my duty, I’m off.’
With a supercilious grin, he threw over his shoulder, ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Jill.’
All except Emilia gave him leeway. Her intense dark eyes were stern. ‘I’m relieved the news wasn’t the worst. Does this mean Jonny’s likely to be on his way home soon to recuperate?’
‘No idea.’ Ben placed the cigarette between his lips and brought a lighter up to it. ‘You know what you can do if you need more info. Move.’
‘Thanks for coming,’ Emilia said, with faint sincerity. ‘Light that up outside.’
He pushed past her and left.
Emilia gazed at her husband. ‘Thank God!’
Perry Bosweld encircled her in an unselfconsciously warm embrace. ‘I’m sure that wherever Will is, he’s safe too, darling.’
‘I hope so.’
There was a moment’s silence, a pause from everyone in the room as each thought about their loved ones involved in the war and far from home. A linking of anxiety, hopes, wishes and prayers.
Jill caught Lottie staring at her scratched hand. Was Lottie thinking her weak and soft for managing to hurt herself before she’d even stepped outside into the farmyard? Jill wanted to show she was ready and willing. ‘Is there anything I can do, Mrs Em?’
‘Well, if you want to go straight to it, Jill—’ Emilia smiled at her – ‘come and join us in the milking shed.’
‘I’ll wait for you to put your boots on,’ Tom said, when his mother and stepfather were on their way back across the yard.
‘No, you won’t.’ Lottie pushed him out through the stable doorway and hissed in his ear. ‘Don’t you dare bother Jill. You know what I mean. Besides, she’s got a boyfriend.’
‘Well, bully for him,’ Tom grinned, ambling off with his hands in his pockets, whistling ‘You Are My Sunshine’.
‘I want you to know something, Jill,’ Lottie said vehemently, making Jill pause with just one gumboot on. ‘Heed these words carefully. My Uncle Ben is a loathsome man! You’ve seen for yourself how he shuns my mother. If he can cause trouble for my stepfather he doesn’t hesitate to do so. He’s jealous of their happiness. His American wife left him years ago when she was pregnant with their second child. It took months but he tracked her down in the States, then he returned almost at once and has never spoken of her or their two children since. He’s even made it known that he’s cut the children out of his will. You mustn’t mix with him. If you do, the family, me in particular, will see it as disloyalty. And while Tom may be a heartbreaker, my Uncle Ben is a merciless seducer.’
Jill had listened amazed at such frank information.
‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Lottie. I do.’
As they started across the yard, Lottie suddenly pushed her arm through Jill’s. ‘Good. Then I’m sur
e we’ll get along fine.’
* * *
Someone else turned up in Hennaford, but unlike Jill, she was neither expected nor welcomed.
Ben Harvey had barely got back inside Tremore House when his ageing, stick-thin housekeeper hurried to the library with news that he had a visitor.
From his desk, Ben scowled at her puffed face as he impatiently pushed a sheaf of papers together. The trip to Ford Farm, clashing with Emilia, as he had done so often over the years, had put him in the darkest mood. He pulled off his round-rimmed spectacles and rubbed at his partially blinded eye. Tension made it ache and sting. ‘Is it anyone important, Agnes? I’m about to slip off to the farm. I’ve a very busy day ahead.’ He was extremely patriotic and saw it as his duty to king and country to put in several hours of hard physical work on the land almost every day.
‘You must come at once, Mr Ben!’ Agnes blustered, wringing her bony hands and making the veins on them stand out ugly and blue. ‘It’s Miss Faye! She’s here. She’s actually here.’
‘Who? Don’t be silly!’ Ben cried in anger at the mention of his daughter.
‘It’s her, I swear. I’d know her anywhere. She’s changed quite a bit but ’tis certainly the same little maid that used to live here. She’s come with bags and everything and is standing out there in the hall. Asking to see you, Mr Ben.’
Ben sank down slowly onto his plush buttoned leather chair. He dragged a hand down over his face. ‘I… I. What does she want? What on earth’s she doing here?’ Everything inside him seized up. He swore under his breath. ‘Um… show her into the drawing room. Tell her I’ll be along in a minute. I need to think.’
Faye Harvey followed the housekeeper into the appointed room. She looked all around. Little had changed since she’d last been here, twelve years ago. Mirrors and reflective ornaments and highly polished furniture, crafted in the last two decades, gave the illusion of there being more light and space to the long room. There was still the same enormous brick-red Tabriz rug on which she had spread out her toys. There was little she remembered about her father, it had seemed that he could never be much bothered with her, but he hadn’t minded where she’d played. On the lofty mantelpiece was a copy of a photograph that her mother kept displayed in her own drawing room, of a sad-looking, black-haired man. It was of her late Uncle Alec, who had been Hennaford’s squire. Her brother, born a few months after her mother had taken her away from here, was his namesake and looked very much like him. And like their father too; the older Harvey men shared the same dark, rugged, grey-eyed looks. Hopefully, she’d get to meet her Uncle Tristan, whom she remembered to be very good-natured. Her Aunt Emilia too. If her father turned her out, her next stop would be Ford Farm, where she was sure she’d receive a welcome.
