by Roland Moore
Finch was feeling more awkward than usual. He was usually slightly uncomfortable in his own skin, but walking along a riverbank with Evelyn Gray was making him feel particularly ungainly and out of his depth. He’d asked to see her, to make up for his early departure from the pub. And it had seemed a good idea to walk away from the bustling kitchen, where most of the Land Girls were having their lunch. It would be easier to talk. Besides, Finch wouldn’t have to endure teasing looks from the girls if he didn’t bring Evelyn in. But he hadn’t thought things through, because the riverbank, with the sunlight dappling the trees and the bird song nearby was a romantic cliché that made him feel deeply uncomfortable. Yes, he knew he was courting Evelyn. And he wanted that. But did things have to be quite so explicit? The truth was that he had been on his own for so long. Agnes had been gone for twenty-one years now and he’d never really been interested in courting since. So hearts and flowers and sweet nothings were all alien to him. He didn’t know what to do. And he didn’t know when he was supposed to do it.
“You seem to have a lot on your mind, Fred,” Evelyn ventured, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
“It’s been, you know, a busy old day,” he lied, knowing he wouldn’t be able to explain the truth. How could he explain it when he didn’t understand it? “I just wanted to say sorry for having to rush off the other night.”
“You’ll do anything to get out of buying a round.” Evelyn smiled.
“Perhaps I could make it up to you? Would you like to have dinner? You know, a proper meal.” Finch beamed, his large face open and nervous.
“Why don’t we have dinner at the farm? I’d love to meet everyone.”
“You would?” Finch looked baffled. “Why?”
“I can’t just be your secret, can I? It would be nice to meet them all properly.”
Her confidence, which bordered on brashness, surprised Finch. She was always forward. A woman without worry about what the gossips would say. Evelyn could never be accused of being a wallflower. No, she stood up and asked for what she wanted. And now it seemed Finch would have to arrange a dinner at Pasture Farm. Esther’s face would be a picture. And not a good one. Finch knew that she’d find the extra burden of cooking something formal a pain in the neck. Which meant that he’d get a rocket from her. Still, that was a battle for another day. For now, Finch had made up with Evelyn, and he was going to see her again. That was all good.
“Is this all your farm, Fred?” she asked.
Finch shook his head. He pointed to the distant hawthorn hedges down the hill, where a country lane bisected the landscape, and then up to the manor house in the distance, looming over the fields like a crumbling guardian angel.
“That’s the length of it, but we go off to the sides, three fields-worth that way, and four that.”
“It’s a huge estate to manage.” Evelyn seemed impressed.
“You’ve got to have managerial skills.” Finch gripped his lapels, trying to look the part.
“And what’s to the left? I saw some other farm buildings.”
“That’s Shallow Brook Farm. The one I was telling you about. John Fisher manages that one at the moment, but he’s not a farmer like me. Not born and bred.”
“So you have to do a bit of managing there too, then?” She teased.
Finch liked this. This romantic-walk business was easier than he thought. The couple reached a small bridge that crossed the river. Finch indicated for Evelyn to go first.
“What a gentleman,” she said.
“No, just want you to test that it won’t break.” He grinned. A stern, troubled look crossed her face and he realised that this romantic banter wasn’t as easy as it looked. “Not saying you’re fat …” And then he was digging deeper into the dreadful hole. Becoming complacent had taken his eye off the ball and things were going downhill rapidly. But this time, Evelyn smiled and he felt a flood of relief. She was a woman of the world and she could recognise social awkwardness when she saw it.
“Don’t worry, I know what you meant,” she said, moving onto the bridge. “And look, my massive weight hasn’t broken it into firewood!” Now it was Finch’s turn to grimace as he puzzled whether she was offended or simply joking. But he soon realised that she was fine and relaxed with everything. Evelyn asked about the vegetables they were growing and the types of bee that were hovering around the cabbages, and Finch knew that he could have a laugh and a joke with this woman. He’d been lucky to find someone so understanding and so easy-going. Lucky old Finch.
Chapter 5
Shiny, black patent-leather shoes. Small feet running full pelt down a cobbled street on a Sunday afternoon. A bloody, painful gash on the girl’s right knee was hampering her progress, but she knew she had to block out the discomfort. She’d fallen over in her haste, but she knew she couldn’t stop. She knew she had to keep running. Her small chest felt as if it would burst with the exertion as she ran over a wrought-iron bridge, slaloming around a mother who was pushing a large pram. The mother turned to scold the clumsy child with the mane of red hair. But the girl was already on the other side of the bridge, running, running, running. She had to keep running.
A brisk breeze rattled down the high street as Iris stood outside the village hall wearing a pretty floral dress. She had agonised over what to wear and this option was summery without being too revealing. She didn’t want to appear fast. She had no experience of men, but she knew she didn’t want to mess this up. Given the unexpected bite of the wind, Iris wished she had worn a pullover or a cardigan. The goosebumps on the top of her arms made the skin look like sandpaper. Added to this, she was still carrying around a pounding hangover that had refused to shift all day. Iris brushed her arms to keep warm as the hall began to fill up with expectant cinema-goers. There hadn’t been a film shown on the makeshift screen for nearly two months, and with no other cinema facilities around for miles, this event looked as if it would be packed to the rafters.
She watched as the parade of villagers filed into the hall. She stared at a young man in a suit for a second or two before she realised it was Martin. He nodded nervously to her.
“How are you, Iris?” he asked.
“All right. Cold,” Iris replied.
“I’d give you my jacket, but I don’t think that would be a good idea.” Martin looked up the street. “Where is he?”
Iris shrugged. The truth was she didn’t know. And she was kicking herself for not having arranged things more explicitly. She didn’t know whether Joe would meet her outside the hall or whether he’d be expecting to pick her up at the farm. She hoped she’d done the right thing.
Martin stood with her, watching the movie-goers.
“I hope you can get a seat.”
“You should go in. Otherwise you won’t get one either.”
“I’m all right. I’ll wait with you.”
Iris smiled. That was kind of him. They glanced up the road, but there was no sign of Joe Batch.
“How are the books going?” Martin ventured.
“I haven’t had a lot of time to read,” Iris said.
“Do you mind me asking something?”
Iris nodded, wondering where this was going.
“It’s just, if you ever need someone to practise with, I’m happy to listen.”
Iris looked into his handsome, boyish face. She was about to say thank you, when a voice behind her made her turn.
“Hey! Iris!” It was Joe Batch, out of breath. “Your landlady said you’d be here, just caught you.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know what we’d arranged.”
With a hint of a frown, Joe flashed a look at Martin. Who was this kid? Martin took the hint and edged away, joining the queue of people. Iris wanted to say something to him, but Joe blocked her view with his body.
“So? Ready?”
“Yes I am!” Iris said, finding a big smile.
Joe took her arm and ushered her into the hall. The hall was crammed with people, with row upon row of wooden chairs,
tightly packed. They squeezed past a group of middle-aged men and women who were standing near the entrance. These people had been unable to get seats, but were intent on watching the new film, even if it was from the doorway. Iris couldn’t see where Martin had gone. She peered into the gloom. Joe waved to someone and Iris noticed that another GI had saved two seats next to him. The soldier moved his hand to allow Joe to sit. Iris squeezed along the row and sat next to him. They were near the front, with an excellent view of the makeshift screen.
In front of the screen, a thin man wearing a bow tie and grey-checked trousers was urging for silence, his arms flapping as if he was a tweedy praying mantis. It was Eugene Dolland, the community-minded man and film buff who had organised the screening. He’d worked at Shepperton in the mid-thirties and somehow acquired a projector. And with that and his contacts he was able to find films to show to the locals.
He knew that they liked rousing action adventure films or romances, so he’d find whatever he could. Previously Lady Hoxley allowed him to show his features and associated news reels at the Manor House, but since it had been turned into a military hospital, that wasn’t as easy as before. Even if the main room that he’d used wasn’t now full of beds, the medical staff wouldn’t have allowed a lot of unnecessary visitors to traipse through. But the village hall was a suitable alternative, even if it let in more light and draughts than he would have liked.
After a newsreel, the feature started and everyone in the hall sat transfixed. The sound was too loud and the screen was too small, but this was the only hope that the people of Helmstead had of seeing a film, of seeing Gary Cooper in action. This was their cinema and they loved it. The chance to escape into a fantasy of clean-cut heroes and beautiful women, a world largely unaffected by the war. And if the films did touch on the subject of the war, the audience could be certain that they would see the Nazis being beaten by British fair play and heroism. During the film, Iris was aware that Joe would periodically turn to look at her, watching the lights of the screen play over her face; the images reflecting in her eyes.
She felt his hand on the back of her chair, confidently snaking its way to her shoulder. She offered a little smile, happy to let it happen, and she felt the squeeze of his large hand on her shoulder. His fingers were warm and she liked the feeling. She turned to look at him and was surprised when he moved forward for a kiss. She nearly blurted out her alarm, but his face kept getting closer. She backed away as far as she could in her seat. This wasn’t what she was expecting. She’d come to watch a film with him, not kiss him in public!
Because Joe was blocking their view, some people in the row behind started making disapproving noises and muttering comments. Joe scowled back at them. Then he took Iris’s hand and tried to usher her to leave. But she pulled her hand back. “No,” she whispered firmly.
Joe gave a little snort of derision and let go of her hand. He sat back in his seat and looked at the screen. Iris could see him drumming his fingers on his thighs, clearly irked by her rejection. She felt unsettled, her stomach churning like a mangle. Why had he tried to do that? They hardly knew each other and this was their first time out in public. Iris was aware that her cheeks felt hot. She struggled to concentrate on the screen as the black-and-white images played over their faces.
When the film finished, Eugene Dolland thanked everyone for coming. He urged the large crowd to take their time in leaving the hall. Iris felt the knot in her stomach tightening. Over the course of the picture, she had managed to relax slightly, knowing that Joe wouldn’t try to kiss her again. But now she faced the inevitable prospect of having to talk to him about what happened. Joe was halfway out of his seat, waiting for the people ahead of him to leave. Iris stood and edged her way along the row. Suddenly she thought of her salvation. Martin. If she bumped into him, then she couldn’t have any awkward conversation with Joe Batch, could she? But where was Martin? She scanned the rows, but there were so many people standing in the way that it was impossible to see.
When Iris and Joe got outside, they walked in silence for a few steps. He smiled at her. “Can we talk?”
Iris nodded. Joe took her hand and led her down an alley round the back of the village hall.
Now she realised that he was nodding as he looked her up and down. Small red marks on his cheeks showed that he was furious about what had happened.
“Look, Joe, I -” Iris began.
But Joe lunged at her, trying to pin his mouth against hers. Iris couldn’t even scream. With all her strength, she pushed him away. She had to control the situation, and fast.
“Please don’t -”
“You knew what this was about.”
“What?”
“Coming out with me. You made me look stupid in there, just going for a little kiss.”
“I didn’t feel ready …”
To her shock and amazement, he swung her round and forced her back against the wall. He started to kiss her. She felt a hand grabbing her right breast, which had the side effect of holding her even more firmly against the brickwork. She couldn’t let this happen. She broke away and shoved the hand off. But Joe pressed his mouth against hers again. He wasn’t giving up. Iris started to panic, desperately trying to force out words to stop him. But his tongue was pushing into her mouth, making even the act of breathing hard.
“Come on,” he muttered.
Iris found sudden, unexpected strength and pushed him backwards. She moved to one side, moving away, as fast as she could.
“Get off me!” she panted. “Get off.”
It was as if a switch had been turned off. As quickly as it had come, the fire faded and he suddenly shook his head, as if someone had thrown cold water in his face. “Sorry, I’m - I shouldn’t have done that.” Other people, passing the end of the alley, were looking now. Two old men, cigarettes in their hands, looked on with half-concerned eyes.
Iris took deep breaths, trying to stop her head from swimming. She felt woozy with fear and adrenaline. Was he just saying that because they had an audience? Or was it genuine regret?
“What got into you?” she said, her breathing almost returning to normal.
“We’ve got a dangerous thing on tomorrow. It’s no excuse, I’m sorry.” He was panting, and looking at the ground in shame. “But I’d been thinking about Chuck getting hurt and thinking how damn easy it is for any one of us to die. So I was seizing the moment.” He sighed, looking disgusted with himself. Iris realised that he couldn’t make eye contact.
“What’s happening tomorrow?”
“There’s a munitions dump near Panmere Lake. We’ve got to move it. That’s all.”
“I want to go now,” Iris said.
She was confused, but she offered him a consoling look. She had been terrified, but she also knew about the uncertainty of survival, borne from the fact that no one was really safe during this war. It made everything seem more urgent. She’d heard many of the Land Girls talking about living for the moment because you might not have many days left.
“I’m just not ready, that’s all,” Iris said, taking another step back.
“No, it’s me.” Joe shook his head and started to walk away. “I understand if you don’t want to see me.”
She went to follow, to continue the conversation, but suddenly Frank appeared at the end of the alleyway. Stony-faced and ready for trouble, he glanced at Joe and Iris, before speaking to her.
“Are you all right, Iris?” It was obvious that he’d been watching at least some of what had played out and that he’d heard everything.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
Joe was scowling at Frank, but the older man met his eyes and didn’t look away.
“Maybe it’s best if you get yourself back to barracks, eh son?”
Joe hesitated, a sour grin spreading on his face. He took a menacing step towards Frank, towering over the thin frame of the gamekeeper. Iris wondered whether this was going to end in violence. “If you say so, Pops,” Joe said. Never had contritio
n sounded so much like a threat. Joe walked off up the high street. After he was sure Joe wasn’t coming back, Frank turned to check on Iris.
“It was just a shock. I didn’t think he’d force himself on me.”
“You don’t expect that in a public place,” Frank offered. “Want me to walk you home?”
“I’ll be all right.”
Slowly she set off, reflecting on what had happened. All thoughts of the film had faded from her mind, replaced by trying to work out what had happened in the alley. As Iris walked over the bridge, past the offices of The Helmstead Herald, a voice shouted out to her.
“Iris?” It was Martin. Iris was relieved to see him as it was getting pretty dark and her bravado about walking home alone was fading. As they walked over the fields towards the distant lights of Pasture Farm, Iris was grateful that Martin seemed to have no knowledge of what had happened to her in the village hall. Instead, they talked about life on the farm, the war and their lives before. Such normality helped to settle the last of the butterflies fluttering around her stomach.
“So you live with your mum in Northampton?”
“Yes.”
“What about your dad?” Martin asked.
“He died.” Iris shrugged, as if it was just one of those things, like mislaying a book or being late to church. She didn’t intend in any way for her words to belittle it, but the truth was she didn’t really want to talk about it. She was sad that her father wasn’t around, but most of her discomfort came from knowing how he’d died. It was a day that would haunt her forever.
It was very dark as they came to the fork in the path that led to Shallow Brook Farm or Pasture Farm. Iris could see Martin’s silhouette and sometimes catch a glimpse of the moistness of his eyes reflecting the moonlight, but most of the time it was too dark to make out much detail. He was talking about his own father, Stanley Reeves.
“I haven’t seen him since he went to war.” Martin brushed his hair from his face. “We know he’s alive. Or we hope he still is. But he was captured by the Germans and put in a prisoner of war camp.”
