by Roland Moore
Then it all came flooding back. Evelyn had knocked her out. Iris was aware that she was crying, but it was as if the noise wasn’t coming from her own body. She was somehow disconnected, an onlooker of the experience. It wasn’t a howl, just a soft sobbing, over which she didn’t seem to have any control. She’d never seen that in any of the films she’d seen at the flicks. After a traumatic event, people just got on with whatever business they needed to do, stoically, with stiff upper lips. This wretched feeling of disbelief and dislocation wasn’t something that ever troubled Vivien Leigh or Greer Garson. It was as if her body was letting some of the anguish out without her actually feeling upset. It was an odd and unsettling feeling. Slowly, she hauled herself up to a sitting position. She assumed that she had fainted after Evelyn had punched her. Standing unsteadily on foal’s legs, Iris held onto the bedside cabinet for support. She sat on the bed, her brain trying to make sense of the bizarre and unexpected thing that had just happened. She wiped away the tears as questions whizzed around her head.
She’d found Evelyn Gray in the farm. Why?
What was Evelyn looking for in the tin box?
Why had Evelyn hit her?
So many questions and not a single answer. But it was that last one that was such a shock, so unexpected an occurrence. Iris had never experienced anything similar before. Not first-hand, anyway. She remembered when her mother had accidentally stepped in front of a car outside the Northampton Lyons Corner House and the driver got out from his vehicle and pushed her. That was shocking, a stranger assaulting someone she loved. The motorist had been shocked by nearly running her over and had taken out his confusion and stress by pushing the woman who had nearly dented his paintwork. Iris remembered her mother going ashen white. They walked home, briskly, in silence, her mother chewing her lip. And then Margot Dawson had downed a big glass of gin, her fingers shaking so much that it sloshed over the sides. And only then did she regain the power of speech.
So many questions swam to the surface, and each one made Iris’s head spin a little more. She needed something tangible to think about, something solid to latch her thoughts onto. She needed to ground herself from this woozy nightmare. Then Iris remembered the photograph. That was solid. That was evidence. Evelyn had known Vernon. They were in a photograph together. How had she known him? When was it taken? Why were they together? With horror, Iris realised that maybe the pair had been courting. Evelyn had known Vernon before and they had been courting!
But then even the tangible fact of the photograph seemed to taunt her and Iris doubted what she had seen. Evelyn had pushed her backwards, so she had been in shock when she saw the photograph. And she’d caught no more than a glimpse of it. Could she really be so sure that it showed Evelyn and Vernon? What if she was wrong? But then why would Evelyn punch her to get the photograph otherwise? Iris decided she had to have the strength of her convictions. She had to believe in what she saw and not doubt her own mind.
The question now was what should she do?
She thought of good-natured Freddie Finch, the man who wanted to marry Evelyn Gray. He had been the happiest she had ever seen him. He’d had a spring in his step and been more jokey than usual. Sunshine beamed from his ruddy face and his kind eyes. He’d even started dressing smartly and bought a proper belt to hold up his trousers! If she told him what she had seen, would he still want to marry her? In her heart, Iris knew the answer. No, it would destroy him. Did she want to hurt Freddie Finch by telling him? He’d been like a surrogate father to her since she’d arrived.
And even if she decided to tell him, what would she say, exactly? What evidence did she actually have that any of this had happened? And Finch would want evidence if she was going to accuse Evelyn Gray of sneaking into Shallow Brook Farm.
As Iris wrestled with this dilemma, she got up from the bed and took a few steps towards the door. Something caught her eye. A glimmer of white amid the busy pattern of the carpet. There was a small, folded piece of paper. Evelyn had missed it when she had hurriedly collected up the contents of the tin. Maybe Iris had landed on top of it when she had raced to grab the tin. Whatever had happened, Iris had unintentionally obscured it with her body, so Evelyn had missed this one item. Iris plucked it from the floor and opened it. She knew she probably wouldn’t be able to read it, but she might be able to tell what it was. She was expecting it to be a letter. But it wasn’t. Instead she found herself holding a piece of paper with drawings over the surface of it. It was a map of some sort.
Quickly, Iris folded it and tucked it into her jumper. She ran out of the bedroom and down the stairs, two at a time. John and Martin were coming back from the fields and she nearly collided with Martin as she ran out of the house.
“Steady on, you nearly had the boy over!” John said.
“Sorry,” Iris called, over her shoulder. “Got to go.”
Martin looked concerned. He turned to John and asked in a sheepish voice, “Is it normal to have women run away from you like that?”
By the time Iris got back to the yard of Pasture Farm, the blue sky was beginning to fade to grey. She could hear the other Land Girls inside, eating their evening meal. The chink of cutlery on plates, the pouring of water into glasses, the occasional laughter. Iris paced around the yard for a while, making grooves in the dirt with her boots. She couldn’t say what she wanted to say in front of everyone. She had to compose herself and work out what to do. She decided that she would talk to Esther. A woman of wisdom and experience, she’d know what to do. And she was no fan of Evelyn Gray, so she might listen. Iris would tell her about what happened at Shallow Brook Farm. She’d tell Esther everything. Knowing she had to work out what was going on, Iris used the time pacing to try to piece things together. The trouble was that not much of it made sense. She went back to the events of the previous night. The dinner party for Evelyn. Why would Evelyn try to make her really drunk by slipping something her drink? Then the answer hit her like a bolt of lightning. Evelyn had been surprised to see Iris when she walked into the bedroom at Shallow Brook Farm. What if she had intended to make Iris too ill to work today so that she would have free and uninterrupted access without Iris being there? That could be it. That had to be it. Didn’t it? She’d wanted Iris out of the way, so she’d fixed her drink.
Iris glanced across the yard to where Frank’s shed was. The building was in darkness. How Iris wished it was bathed in light, like it was most evenings. Tonight that would have been a welcome sight. Talking to Frank about all this would have helped Iris get it all straight in her head. She caught a waft of the lamb stew that was being eaten in the farmhouse kitchen and realised that she was very hungry. But here she was, outside and alone, with her head pounding and her throat feeling dry. It took another forty-five minutes until Iris assumed the meal was over. The voices had faded from the kitchen and lights had appeared in the upstairs windows. She’d caught a glimpse of Shelley pulling the blinds. With trepidation, Iris took her boots off on the step, lining them up alongside Shelley, Joyce and Dolores’s boots. She flipped the latch and entered the farmhouse kitchen. The heat from the stove wafted over her face as she pulled the door shut behind her. The plates and glasses were stacked on the dresser, washed and dried from dinner, and the table was laid with fresh knives and forks for tomorrow’s breakfast. The room was empty. Iris heard Finch clearing his throat and the low tones of the Light Programme. He was in the parlour. Iris straightened her clothes, took a deep breath and went through. Sure enough, Esther and Finch were listening to the wireless. And it was a blessed relief that they were alone, with all the other Land Girls upstairs. On the wireless, two comedians were doing a cross-talk routine, but neither Finch nor Esther was giving it their full attention. Finch was reading the newspaper and Esther was wrestling with the first rows of a new knitting project. They glanced up at Iris as she appeared in the doorway. Finch turned down the wireless. Esther’s face was stern, unsmiling.
“And where have you been, young lady?” she asked, raisi
ng her eyebrows and looking down her nose, as if she was peering over half-moon spectacles. “You don’t just not turn up for your tea without telling me.”
“I’ve got something to tell you,” Iris said. Despite having all the time outside, pacing and thinking, she had no real idea what she was going to say and when she opened her mouth, a torrent of words spewed out. “Evelyn hit me and stole some things from Vernon’s farm. I don’t know what she was doing there. But the only thing I managed to get was a map. And she obviously knew Vernon because they were in a photograph together and -”
Esther put up the flat of her hand for silence and shook her head vehemently. “Stop, Iris, stop. What are you prattling on about?” She looked confused, rightly so, Iris assumed, as her torrent of an explanation had made little sense.
Finch was frowning now. This wasn’t going well, but Iris knew she had to soldier on.
“It’s true. She was in a photograph with Vernon. And I think she put something in my drink hoping I wouldn’t be at work today. That would have meant she wouldn’t bump into me there!” Iris could tell that they didn’t believe her - that was if they could even understand her garbled ramblings. Finch was rubbing the bridge of his nose, too confused or too angry to speak. He didn’t want to hear these things about the woman he was courting.
“I thought better of you than this, Iris,” Finch said, the words coming out softly, steeped in disappointment. “Maybe you should say this to Evelyn’s face.”
Before Iris could reply to this, she heard the flush of the downstairs toilet. Suddenly she noticed that there was a glass of sherry on the armchair table next to Finch, and a black fur stole draped over the arm. She felt a sinking feeling in her stomach as she realised Evelyn was here.
Iris felt any resolve and fight fade away, her energy draining as if it was water from an unplugged bath. If Esther and Finch weren’t going to entertain her story, what hope did she have when Evelyn was here. She heard the door creak as Evelyn left the bathroom and Iris glanced nervously round as Evelyn appeared in the narrow corridor leading from the parlour. Evelyn smiled, surprise on her face. But apart from that, there was no noticeable reaction playing on her features. Nothing to give herself away. She had expected this moment, perhaps.
“Hello. Iris?”
Evelyn looked confused by the tension in the room. She looked to Finch for some explanation.
“Oh, she’s been telling us all sorts of rubbish,” Finch said, shaking his head. Iris knew she had to persevere.
“You were in a photograph with Vernon. What were you doing in a photograph with -?”
“What are you talking about?” Evelyn said. “What photograph, dear? Who’s Vernon?”
“He’s that chap I told you about. A real wrong sort,” Finch explained.
Even in the heat of the moment, Iris noticed how cool and calm Evelyn was. There was no need for her to vehemently defend herself and deny things. She simply had to play confused and let Iris appear to be the erratic, crazy one. “What is she talking about, Esther?”
“We’ve no idea,” Esther said, putting down her knitting.
“She put something in my drink. Last night. And then she hoped I wouldn’t be at Shallow Brook because I was ill today. But I was at Shallow Brook. And I saw her rifling through Vernon’s things.” Iris was aware that tears were welling in her eyes, the tears of impotent righteousness. She yearned for a glimpse of belief in their faces, or at least a sign that they were taking her seriously. But they were closed to her. Evelyn walked around Iris, surveying her like a curious artefact in a museum.
“How extraordinary,” she mumbled, taking her seat next to Finch. “I really don’t know what to say.” Evelyn opened her cigarette case and lit up. Finch placed a conciliatory hand on hers. Esther was scowling.
“This is because she said you were drinking last night, isn’t it?” Esther said.
“What? No.”
“I did comment on the young girl drinking. But only in passing,” Evelyn corroborated.
“Yes, you come in here with a load of lies to try to get back at her for making you feel bad. Well, I’m on to your game, young lady. I know what you’re doing,” Esther said.
“No, you’re wrong.”
“Go to your room!”
“No, you’ve got to listen to me. It’s true. All of it. Ask her, ask her why she was in a photograph with Vernon!”
“I’m sorry, Fred, I don’t know what the girl is babbling about,” Evelyn said. “I don’t know this Vernon person.”
Iris knew she was losing, the situation tumbling out of her control. She had to do something. She had to do something to make them believe her. She thought about Evelyn scooping up the things from the tin. Where had she put them after that? Suddenly it came to her and Iris thought she had the answer. She snatched Evelyn’s handbag off her lap, the cigarette case and lighter tumbling out. For the first time, Evelyn lost her composure and shouted, “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”
“It’ll be in here. The photograph!” And Iris tipped the contents of the handbag onto the floor. A small leather purse, a lipstick and a compact. A ration book, a library token and a cutting from a Picturegoer magazine. But there were no letters and there was no photograph. Iris could feel the cold eyes of everyone in the room boring into her. She’d taken a dreadful gamble and it had failed. Things would be even worse for her now.
“Pick all that up,” Esther stormed. “And apologise to Mrs Gray this instant.”
Iris bent down and scrambled to replace the items as quickly as she could, but each second seemed to stretch into ten as she fumbled to find everything. Finally she clipped the handbag shut and handed it to Evelyn.
“And?” Esther prompted.
But Iris couldn’t apologise. Not when she knew the truth. She looked Evelyn in the eyes and said with defiance, “I’m going to bed. And this isn’t over.”
She didn’t turn around as she walked from the parlour, ignoring the insistent shouts from Esther to come back and do as she was told. She had never heard Esther as angry as this. She knew that she had wrecked things for herself at Pasture Farm. Iris didn’t stop walking until she reached her bedroom. She closed the door and ran straight to the wardrobe. She swigged hungrily at the bottle of carrot whisky until she stopped thinking about all the madness of the day. For a second night in a row, the ceiling light was spinning around as sleep claimed Iris. It was a fitful sleep, her body stretched at the wrong angle across the bed, her throat dry from drinking. But she wasn’t asleep for more than an hour when she woke with a start. She realised that she was still dressed. As she straightened up and started to idly take her pullover off, the map fell out onto the bed.
The map!
It was evidence. Wasn’t it? Should she rush back to the parlour with it? Iris listened for sounds from downstairs, but she couldn’t hear anything. They had gone. Iris looked at the map, but although she could make out the drawings, she couldn’t read the words. She glanced out of the window. The swing was creaking in the wind. If she craned her neck, she could see Frank’s workshop. It was still in darkness. She had to show this to Frank. If he wasn’t in the shed or the house, then it was likely that he’d only be in one other place. Iris slipped her pullover back on and crept out the door.
The beer tasted good. It was Frank’s first drink all week and he raised his pint glass to the barman of the Bottle and Glass, grateful for the lock-in after hours. The pub had been closed for a couple of days because of problems getting deliveries of beer and spirits. Frank knew that things were getting scarcer as the war dragged on. It wasn’t that beer was hard to make, and it wasn’t rationed, it was just that there was less grain being grown to make it. Frank knew that as a regular customer of the Bottle and Glass he would usually be able to buy a couple of drinks. But he had seen strangers turned away after only one drink, the barman saving his wares for his favourites. Frank didn’t mind, as long as he was on the right side of that grouping. A few regulars were dotted around, th
e lights kept low to avoid the attentions of anyone wandering by.
The talk in the pub was about the attack at Panmere. Frank kept himself to himself, but listened to snippets of conversation.
“They said it was an inside job. Someone tipped the Jerries off.”
“All the armaments went up like a bonfire!”
“There’s rumours that three Germans are on the loose. Shot down they were, but they parachuted out.”
Frank didn’t give much credence to such bar-room chatter. He was a quiet man, who didn’t like to gossip. When he spoke it was because he had the facts to hand. He wasn’t one for supposition. As the landlord urged them to go home, Frank finished the dregs of his pint, pulled his cap over his head and made for the door. He waved goodbye to the landlord and stepped out into the muggy night air. He felt guilty about not having another reading and writing lesson with Iris. He knew he had to keep up her regular sessions to ensure she kept learning to read and write. It was her ambition to write a letter home, and he knew she was a long way off that.
As Frank sauntered past the town square, he was aware of the figure of an American soldier blocking his way. Frank smiled and took a step to the left to go round the person. But then he realised it was Joe Batch. The soldier looked earnestly at him, and Frank couldn’t help but focus on the small but ridiculous detail that his eyes seemed oily around the lids.
“No one else heard what I said,” Joe said, seemingly happy to start his conversation somewhere in the middle. Frank looked in baffled surprise and then he realised where this was going.
“I didn’t tell anyone about it.” He shrugged. “I’m no traitor.” Frank went to pass by, but Joe caught his arm, gripping it tightly along the forearm. Frank spun around slowly, waiting to see what happened next, but not wanting to goad the younger man into a fight unless it was absolutely necessary.
“Hey, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m the one that ignored the posters. Loose lips lose lives and all that. I’m the bad one really, aren’t I?” Joe smiled, seemingly filled with bonhomie. But his eyes told a different story, transfixing Frank with a steely, cruel gaze. “So you know, maybe I should be punished. But I think I’ve already had that punishment, don’t you?”
