Land Girls, The Promise

by Roland Moore

  “Yes,” Martin said, bracing himself for what he assumed would be inevitable friendly teasing.

  “Was Iris there?” John said.

  “Yes, but not with me. She was with a Yank.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Why should I care?” Martin said with enough anger to make John think he really did care, a lot. They walked on across the field for a few minutes and then Martin looked at John, with his confidence and easy charm. He wished he had more of that instead of feeling a bit awkward and tongue-tied all the time.

  “How did you get Joyce to go out with you?” Martin asked as they trudged down the line of the fence. Maybe there was some secret about women to be learnt from this experienced man.

  “Bribery, blackmail,” John joked, before getting serious. “No, we’d been friends since we were kids. And it just sort of happened as we got older. Our parents thought we were too young, though.”

  “I think Iris thinks I’m too young.”

  “You’re one year younger than her. That’s all. And she likes you. Trust me.”

  Martin’s face lit up. John realised that he would be deluged with questions now, all seeking reassurances and more details. It was plain to see that Martin viewed John as the Oracle on such matters as courting and talking to women. For his part, John was keen to close things down as quickly as possible.

  “Joyce said she asked about you. I don’t know any more. Now, come on, let’s look for these gaps.”

  Iris woke herself with a snort, disorientated and dry-mouthed. Blimey! She’d been asleep and snoring on the back step of Shallow Brook Farm. With bleary eyes, she surveyed the empty back yard, a small concrete rectangle with various weeds striving for life through the cracks on the ground. An old metal incinerator stood in one corner, but apart from that, the yard was empty. Her cup of tea sat beside her, stone cold and untouched. She’d sat down and closed her eyes to try to relieve her headache and she’d gone clean off. As she got her bearings, Iris decided that she felt a little better. She picked up the tea cup and poured it over some wild flowers that were growing from between a crack in the concrete. Getting to her feet, she wondered what time it was. She hoped she hadn’t been asleep for too long. In the kitchen, the clock was only at ten-thirty. That was good, she hadn’t been asleep for too long. Something caught her eye as she washed up her teacup. A bottle of parsnip wine was on the draining board. Maybe a little sip might help her headache? After all, she’d heard Frank talk about the hair of the dog relieving a hangover. Iris decided it was worth a go. Anything to stop the thumping in her head. She uncorked the bottle and brought it up to her dry lips, the brown-coloured liquid burning her tongue as it went down. Iris coughed. It was strong stuff. She took another swig, longer this time, and felt the warmth of the alcohol down her throat. It was so comforting, the tender embrace that had helped her relax and forget about the horrors in her mind at night-time. It was helping with all her problems: Joe Batch, Esther and Evelyn. All of them were swimming away as she took more sips. Iris stopped herself, not wanting to get too tipsy. The last thing she wanted to do was fall asleep again. With conviction, she stoppered the bottle and put it back on the draining board. As the liquid settled, Iris realised that the level had fallen by an inch. She hoped that Martin and John wouldn’t notice when they came to have their evening drink. She rinsed her mouth with water from the tap and straightened her uniform.

  Deciding she felt better and more able to face her duties, Iris was about to go back to work when she heard a creak on the floorboard upstairs. What was that? Oh, it was an old house. It was probably just mice. But another creak sounded. That was bigger than a mouse.

  “Hello?” she said, surprised that anyone was here. Surely Martin or John wouldn’t be back yet? There was another creak from upstairs. Someone was definitely up there.

  I will come for you, Iris. Mark my words!

  The thought made Iris shiver. As she reached the foot of the stairs, she glanced at Vernon’s old cap on the hat stand. Could he be upstairs? What if he had come back for her? No, that was crazy. He’d risk being hanged if he came back, hanged for the murder of his son. Channing had pointed that out. But what if Vernon wasn’t thinking rationally? What if he just wanted revenge on the girl who had alerted the police to the truth? If he’d gone mad, then there was no telling what he might risk. Iris listened for any noise, hoping against hope that there would be no more sounds. And then she could say that she imagined it. She could go off and forget all about this. But another creak sounded from upstairs. Someone was definitely up there. Someone was moving around on the old floorboards above her.

  She felt her throat go dry, as if it had been lined with blotting paper. She wasn’t sure what to do. Should she shout again? No, that would alert him. At the moment she might have the element of surprise. She knew he was here, but he might not know she was in the house. Iris felt ridiculous at this notion. What did she plan to do? Creep up on him? Iris edged back towards the front door. Her perspiring fingers struggled to turn the latch, but after a couple of fumbles, she managed to open it. She was prepared to run out into the yard, but then a new emotion entered her mind. She felt angry. Angry at running all the time, angry at jumping at shadows, angry at having to drink at night to shut out the fear. Iris would confront her demon. With conviction, she darted into the living room and emerged brandishing a blackened poker. It was the same one that had always been by the fireplace. Holding it like a sword, she carefully started to move up the stairs. Sticking to the walls, Iris thought the floorboards wouldn’t creak as much. Three steps. Ahead of her, the gloomy top of the stairs. The landing curtains were still drawn, like milky cataracts, across the windows. Four steps. To her side were various small-framed photographs of solemn-looking people, presumably relatives of the Storey family. Iris was aware of her heart thumping in her chest, pumping blood around her temples. It made it hard to listen for any more sounds. She gripped the poker. Five steps. She stopped to listen. As far as she could tell, the creaks on the floorboard had stopped. Maybe he’d heard her coming. Maybe he was waiting behind the bedroom door. She looked over the banister towards the room that had been the source of the noises. It was Vernon’s bedroom. She strained to make out different sounds that were now coming from inside. They were harder to define than a creaking floorboard. Perhaps something like a key turning in a lock. And a rustling noise. What was that? Papers being flicked through? Iris took heart that Vernon hadn’t heard her. He was continuing to do what he was doing. Perhaps he was looking for something? Six steps. With confidence rising, Iris continued. She was nearly at the top when her foot hit the wrong part of the stair and a loud creak echoed out. The sounds from the bedroom ceased. This time he’d heard her. He’d definitely heard her. The element of surprise had just vanished.

  Iris gripped the poker and waited. Waited for him to rush out and attack her. But nothing happened. There was just silence and the partially opened door, taunting her with its mystery. She moved to the very edge of the final step and then onto the landing. To her left was the bedroom door. Iris pushed herself flat against the wall and edged towards it. For a split second, she saw another door. It was her front door at home in Northampton, and it was closed.

  Her mother had gone inside, leaving her numbly shocked outside. She stared, wishing that she could be allowed inside. Even if what was happening was bad, she wanted to see it. She wanted to be inside. But her mother had left her outside as if she didn’t matter.

  She shut out those thoughts. This was what she had to worry about. The bedroom door was in front of her, teasingly ajar. The mystery and horror of what was inside was compelling her forward. She had to face it. She had to be brave. Her face twisted in trepidation as she reached for the handle. The poker was gripped tightly as she moved to open the door and throw herself quickly over the threshold. Iris pushed the door and stumbled slightly as she entered, but she managed to keep the poker ahead of her like a weapon.

  “I’ve got you!” sh
e shouted as loudly and bravely as she could manage.

  She gasped in utter shock at the sight that greeted her.

  The screams were dying down as the doctors and nurses of Hoxley Manor treated the injured American soldiers. Eight men had died and seven were detained with varying degrees of injury. It was a brutal first taste of war for a lot of the young recruits, most of whom assumed they were fairly safe on British soil. Private First Class Joe Batch had been discharged fairly quickly after a nurse dressed the wound on his arm and put a plaster on the graze on his cheek. His shoulder was bruised but nothing was broken. He was currently standing in the main entrance of the Manor watching the comings and goings, trying to recognise the faces of his injured friends. He felt numb and distant. Knowing he was probably suffering from shock, Joe tried to collect his thoughts and take his time.

  But then Dr Channing floated past and mentioned that a superior officer would be with Joe soon. The American military would want to ask Joe about his account of what happened.

  “Sure.” Joe nodded. But he had another thought as Dr Channing started to walk away. “Doc? Could I go see my friend while I’m waiting?”

  “Who is your friend?”

  “Chuck Wellings.”

  Dr Channing hesitated and Joe thought that he couldn’t place the name, but then a familiar and dreadful look crossed the doctor’s face. Joe had seen that look before. The bad news face. Suddenly he didn’t want to hear what the doctor had to say, but he knew it was coming anyway. Channing fixed him with dark eyes tinged with regret.

  “I’m deeply sorry, but your friend took his own life.”

  “What?” Joe wasn’t going to accept this. “No, you must have that wrong. What are you talking about?”

  “No mistake, I’m afraid.”

  “Come on! You’re talking about Chuck Wellings? The same guy?”

  “I’m sorry,” Channing said with finality. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?” And he moved away, collaring a nurse for a consultation about a patient as he went. Joe was reeling from this news. Not Chuck Wellings. Not his buddy from back home. With shaking legs, he sat back down.

  He shook his head in disbelief. Four of his friends from back home, the original gang, had died in the last day. Joe couldn’t help himself, and maybe it was delayed shock mixed with grief, but he started to cry.

  All his buddies. They were joking this morning. Joking about the cold start and how they hated getting up early. And Chuck. He was talking to him yesterday. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be right.

  And then he saw something that didn’t fit. Frank Tucker was in the doorway of Hoxley Manor, his cap in his hands, staring at the hustle and bustle. What was he doing here? Dimly, Joe saw one of the nurses thanking Frank, and beyond, on the driveway, Joe could make out Frank’s pony and trap. On the back was a dead serviceman. Frank must have helped bring the bodies and the injured here. Yes, that was it.

  Frank nodded his condolences to Joe.

  “Sorry to hear about it all, son.”

  Something clicked in Joe’s brain. A connection from the other night outside the village hall. Frank had been there. He’d heard about the Panmere plan. And here he was again, witnessing the aftermath. Joe looked up, his eyes suddenly quizzical, as if he couldn’t understand the language that Frank was using. And then, suddenly, Joe leapt out of his seat and pinned Frank Tucker against the wall, his forearm pressing against his throat.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  “What are you talking about, man? Me what?” Frank was struggling to speak.

  “You did it, didn’t you?”

  A nurse tried to prise Joe away, but he was too strong. Frank was gasping for air, his eyes darting questioningly around.

  “You heard me talking about the Panmere mission. You got a message to the Germans!” Joe said angrily. “Outside the pictures, the other day. You heard me!”

  And Joe took away his arm, letting Frank fall to the floor, clutching his throat. The nurse went to Frank’s side and helped him up. Before she could admonish him, Joe scowled at the pair of them and marched away. The nurse checked that Frank was all right. He was coughing as he struggled to get his breath back. They watched Joe disappear across the driveway of Hoxley Manor. After a few minutes, Frank was adamant that he was all right and headed back to the pony and trap, setting off to Shallow Brook Farm. He didn’t notice Joe standing under an oak tree at the end of the driveway. Joe stared intently at Frank Tucker as he passed. As far as he was concerned, this wasn’t over, not by any stretch of the imagination. Maybe he’d found out who had betrayed them. He’d found out the identity of the collaborator who had tipped off the Nazis.

  In Vernon’s bedroom, Iris struggled to process what she was seeing. When she burst in, she had expected Vernon Storey to be ready to pounce on her. And she, by turn, had been ready to brain him with the poker. But Iris was completely thrown by the sight that greeted her.

  Evelyn Gray.

  For her part, Evelyn seemed equally shocked. Not least because she found herself at the sharp end of a poker, as Iris waved it in her face. It took Iris a moment or two to calibrate the situation and realise that Evelyn provided no immediate threat. It wasn’t Vernon. She wasn’t in danger from Vernon. She lowered the poker and was about to apologise for bursting into the room when she suddenly wondered what Evelyn was doing there. On Evelyn’s lap was a small metal box, opened to reveal some papers - from their layout, they looked like letters - and a photograph of a man and a woman. Iris only had time to catch a glimpse of the contents before Evelyn snapped the metal box shut.

  “What are you doing here?” Iris stammered.

  Evelyn glanced around nervously. It was obvious she was searching for an answer. Iris had never seen anyone look so guilty. This was, she supposed, a perfect example of someone being ‘caught in the act’. Iris was trying to piece together the jigsaw too, but she had even fewer pieces than Evelyn. Without answering, the older woman got to her feet and made for the door, the tin box gripped in her hands.

  “I thought I’d come to help, that’s all,” she said, but Iris blocked the door. Something wasn’t right, even though she had no idea what it was.

  “But why are you here?” Iris couldn’t work this out.

  “I told you.” And now, having had a few moments to think up something vaguely convincing, Evelyn continued, “Fred is snowed under with the other farm. He asked me if I’d come and sort some of the belongings in this one. Since the owner took off in such a hurried fashion. Is that all right with you, Iris?”

  And now it was Iris’s turn to have to find an answer. “It doesn’t sound right, sorry.”

  “Don’t be a stupid girl,” Evelyn said. Any warmth in her eyes had gone. “Just mind out the way, and let me get on.” It sounded like a threat.

  “What’s in that tin?” Iris said, refusing to be intimidated.

  “Never you mind, it’s -”

  But Iris grabbed it out of Evelyn’s hands. The older woman tried to keep hold of it, but that just resulted in the hinged lid flying open and raining the contents down like yellowing confetti onto the carpet. Evelyn bent down quickly to pick up the items, but Iris did too, resulting in a thud as their heads banged together. That was all Iris needed. She clasped her forehead in pain, her vision swimming. Evelyn was wincing from the impact and holding her right eye, the point at which they had clashed. In anger she pushed Iris backwards, sending her falling onto the carpet. Evelyn scrambled to get the pieces of paper back into the tin box. Iris felt herself breathing rapidly, shocked, not quite believing what had just happened. Has she really been pushed over by this woman? Iris blinked to try to clear her vision, regretting how woozy the parsnip wine was making her feel. She glanced over at the photograph on the floor. Dimly she noticed that it showed a middle-aged man and a middle-aged woman smiling awkwardly for the camera. They were outside a music hall somewhere, a billboard showing the line-up of that night’s show behind them. It took what seemed like a few seco
nds, but in reality was probably only the briefest moment for Iris to realise who she was looking at. Tiny cold claws of fear clambered up her neck.

  Iris didn’t have time to say anything about the photograph, even as a dozen questions burst into her mind. She didn’t have to even mouth a single question because Evelyn punched her hard in the stomach. It was so unexpected, so shocking, that Iris felt all the air forced from her lungs, partly because of the physical impact but also because of the surprise. Already woozy, she saw stars and black spots appear in front of her eyes as she rolled on the carpet in pain. Examining her with a steely look, Evelyn collected up the last few yellowing pieces of paper and shoved them unceremoniously back into the tin. Clinically, she scanned the carpet for anything she might have missed and then, deciding that she’d got everything, she straightened her back, brushed down her dress and left the room. It was as if nothing had happened.

  The last thing Iris thought about before she lost consciousness was the photograph that she had seen.

  It was a photograph of Vernon and Evelyn.

  Chapter 7

  The cobbled streets were so familiar. The girl knew the way off by heart. And of course, she should know it off by heart as she’d gone there with her parents since she was old enough to remember. The kind man with the white hair would be there. Whatever problem they had, he would listen and then speak in a calming, warm voice that seemed to make any problem more manageable. She hoped that he’d be able to fix this problem. God, please let him be in! Please let him fix this.

  She carried on running, running. Her black patent-leather shoes a blur as they ran along the streets.

  When Iris came to, she was disorientated. Where was she? It was a place she didn’t immediately recognise. A strange bedroom. And why was she on the floor?