Land Girls, The Promise

by Roland Moore

  Iris nodded. “Frank overheard him talking about it. But I’m sure Joe told other people. It’s just he probably couldn’t remember it. So he concentrated on taking it out on Frank. Look, maybe I should see him, just to see if I can put him straight?”

  Channing’s face changed from pleasant and warm to distant and concerned.

  “What is it, Doctor?”

  “Nothing,” Channing said, finding a warm smile to cover whatever he was thinking. Iris couldn’t know that he was worrying whether Joe could remember talking about Panmere to his friend Chuck Wellings in the hospital. Channing was worried that he might remember. And if he did, then he might remember who else was in the room too …

  “How is he?” Iris asked. Part of her had to know.

  “What? Oh, he’s unconscious. It’s touch and go. He’s got a huge amount of injuries.” And then the professional mode kicked in. “I’m very sorry.”

  Iris nodded her understanding and walked off, back to Shelley and the waiting beds. She had two more to do before she could leave this place. Dr Channing watched her go, deep in thought. He was wondering whether Joe would remember …

  At lunchtime, with barely two hours before she was due to leave, Iris sat on the back step of Shallow Brook Farm. Although the hope that Evelyn would show up was fading, Iris was still banking on it happening. The woman would probably leave it to the last minute, to make Iris sweat as much as she could. But yes, it was going to be all right. Hang in there.

  Martin appeared with a sandwich, a mug of tea and an awkward smile. “I thought I’d make you lunch on your last day. You were always doing it for me,” he said.

  “I never made you lunch!” Iris laughed, realising that Martin was joking. He had a dry sense of humour, but didn’t often use it, probably because of a fear of appearing foolish. It was moments like these that made her realise how little time they spent alone. There were always other people at the farmhouse at meal times, always other people in the fields. She was grateful for this moment, even if it looked like being the last one. She budged up on the step, making room for him to sit beside her. He was wearing a pullover, shirt and corduroy trousers - the uniform of a child - but with his slim, muscular arms and legs he looked older than his sixteen years.

  “It’s a shame you’re going,” he said, resolutely not making eye contact. And then, taking the plunge added, “Can I write to you?”

  Iris nodded. “I hope to be able to continue reading the books. I’m taking yours with me.”

  “It won’t take you long to learn.”

  “It would be lovely to hear from you. Thanks,” she said. “I’m just going to miss this place, that’s all.”

  She picked up her sandwich. It was a doorstop with lettuce and cheese wedged between two gigantic slices of potato bread. Iris wasn’t sure she could get the thing in her mouth and as she was nervous enough eating in front of Martin anyway, she didn’t want to try. So she picked a crust off and started to eat that, hoping it would look more ladylike than tackling the monster in one go. They sat in silence for a few long moments, the only sound the engine of a tractor in the next field.

  “Will you come back?” Martin looked at her, genuine sadness in his eyes.

  “Maybe one day. But probably not until the war’s over,” she said, sighing. “Can you imagine when this is over?”

  “It will end.” Martin stared into the distance. “It will be over, and things will go back to normal.”

  “And on the day it ends, I hope they end rationing.”

  “And farm work,” he added with a grin.

  “Yes, I never want to see another spade or a rake afterwards. When I get a house of my own, I’m not even going to have a garden.”

  They laughed together.

  Iris looked at Martin. This time he held her gaze. She stared into his warm eyes. Slowly he extended his fingers across the step until the tips were touching Iris’s fingers. She felt a frisson of excitement and smiled encouragingly at him. He took the hint and moved his head forwards to meet hers, his sandy hair glinting in the sunlight. Iris closed her eyes, waiting for his lips to touch hers …

  But suddenly Joyce Fisher cleared her throat noisily, breaking the moment. Iris and Martin jumped in surprise. They had been inches away from kissing when they noticed their friend standing behind them, in the doorway to the kitchen. Martin stood up, brushing his backside from the step. “I’d better be off, then,” he said.

  “Oh, you don’t have to go,” Joyce said, unintentionally making both of them squirm a little. She realised that she had broken up something.

  “See you, Martin,” Iris said, sadly.

  Martin walked across the yard, and Joyce took his place on the stoop.

  “Sorry if I scared him off,” Joyce said.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Are you all set for the off?”

  “I’d give anything not to go. And I’ve still got a bit of time before I’m due.”

  “You’ll make new friends. And we won’t forget you, you know?” Joyce put a sisterly arm around Iris’s shoulders, before getting to her feet. “I’d better take John his tea. And I’m sorry I couldn’t help you with Finch.”

  Iris watched Joyce march off with a mug of tea to the next field. She listened to the sounds of the farm, the rustle and clucking of the chickens, the bleat of the sheep in the lower field. The tractor noises stopped in the next field and Iris assumed that Joyce had reached John and he’d turned off the engine to have his tea. Life went on. Life would always go on. It’s just that Iris’s life would go on somewhere else.

  Over the course of the next hour, Iris had a steady parade of visitors coming to say their goodbyes. She tried to remain stoic for each visitor, still believing, hope against hope, that Evelyn would appear.

  Connie and Henry popped by to wish her farewell. As a parting gift, Connie gave Iris one of her red lipsticks and winked at her.

  “Wear this and you’ll be fighting them off you!”

  “Hang on, you still wear that colour!” Henry realised.

  “I know.” Connie giggled. “Got to keep you on your toes.”

  After they had left, Frank sauntered by, his injured ankle giving him a slight limp. Iris mentioned that she’d seen Evelyn and given her an ultimatum. Frank was disappointed, thinking she shouldn’t have kicked that particular hornet’s nest. Maybe he could have talked Finch round if she hadn’t kept on digging. Iris dismissed his comment. It didn’t matter because she still hoped that Evelyn would show up. But there was one more thing she wanted to say to Frank before she went.

  “Thank you for trying to teach me to read and write.”

  “That’s all right,” he said. “You make sure you keep it up, eh?”

  And he handed her a copy of a Rupert Bear Annual. “It’s called - can you read the title?”

  “More …” Iris struggled. Frank gave an encouraging look.

  “More Adventures …”

  “More Adventures of … Rupert?” Iris looked pleased with herself.

  “There you go,” Frank said. “Hope you enjoy it. And I hope you write me a letter sometime.”

  “I will. It might have the words ‘more’ and ‘adventures’ in it, though.”

  “That’s good. That’s what life is all about, isn’t it?” Frank patted her on the shoulder and ambled off.

  Later on, at ten to two, Iris said goodbye to Shelley Conrad and she walked slowly back to Pasture Farm, where Esther was waiting for her. Finch was tying the laces of his boots at the kitchen table. He didn’t look up, busying himself with the task at hand.

  “You all set?” Esther said, matter-of-factly.

  With minutes until her deadline, Iris knew for the first time that Evelyn wasn’t going to show up. She surveyed the kitchen. This place had been the centre of her life since she’d arrived. The oven and range, the wooden work surfaces, the large farmhouse table, the pot plants of herbs on the windowsills, the big brass kettle, the teapot with a floral cosy that rode up
, too small, like one of Finch’s jumpers. She could hear the laughter from the girls, the stories and anecdotes; Connie Carter dumping her bare feet on the table and telling everyone they were ruined; Finch gagging as he realised Joyce had forgotten to cook his fish; the girls getting merry on potato wine as the sunset created a strange red colour in the sky outside. And the sad times, the tears. Joyce telling her about how she’d lost her parents and sister in the Coventry bombings; Esther worrying about whether Martin would regain his sight after he’d had an accident; and Iris herself worried about the death of the little lamb she had been nursing. This place had seen it all. If a room could talk …

  Esther broke the moment by shouting at Finch. “What have I told you about switching drinks?”

  Finch looked embarrassed, caught red-handed switching his tea for Esther’s.

  “It was a stronger-looking cup.”

  “I’ll give you stronger-looking! You’ll be the death of me!” Esther admonished.

  Iris took one final look around the room. “I’m ready.” she said, blankly, her heart sinking.

  Esther shook her by the hand. “I’ll inform your mother about your change of address, so she can send letters to the new place.”

  “Thank you.” Iris went to get her suitcase, but Finch already had it. For the first time he looked at her. He nodded perfunctorily in a disengaged well-this-is-happening kind of way and motioned for her to lead the way. As Iris got outside, she was expecting to see Finch’s tractor with its trailer attached as their means of transport to the station. But instead, another vehicle stood waiting.

  A 1929 dark-green Riley Nine Kestrel. Evelyn’s car.

  Iris felt a twinge of hope. Was Evelyn here? Was she going to do the deal at the last moment?

  “Evelyn’s let me borrow it,” Finch said, opening the passenger door for Iris. With fading hope, she got inside, checking quickly to see if Evelyn was sitting in the back. She wasn’t. Finch opened the boot and placed Iris’s suitcase inside. He came around the car and sat got in beside her, his bulky frame struggling to fit in the small space. He pushed the seat back, but he still looked as if the car had been moulded around him, like Mr Toad. Finch broke her from her reverie with the random comment, “I remember Sparrow Soprano.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Your suitcase. The playbill on it.” Finch started the car. “I saw her play at Birmingham, I think. Dreadful voice.”

  Iris couldn’t resist smiling at this remark. Why was it people remembered bad nights at the theatre?

  Gingerly, Finch steered the car slowly out of the yard, its tyres crunching on the gravel. When they reached the single track outside Pasture Farm, Iris could see seven or eight Land Girls busy at work in a field of golden corn, dotted around as if they were raisins in a sponge cake. She fought the sadness in her heart, knowing that she would probably never come back here. This would be a footnote in her life, a place of ghosts and long-gone days.

  When they reached the end of the lane, Finch turned right onto a country road. He still maintained a careful, steady speed. Iris thought he was probably worried about causing an accident in Evelyn’s car. They drove in silence. Iris wound down the window. She noticed the hedgerows moving by, an undulating green wave. And she remembered that she hadn’t taken the map back from Frank. Oh, well, it didn’t matter now. It was probably safe in his shed. The motion of the car and the rhythm of the engine washed over her, calming her, as the hedges blurred alongside the car.

  But after about ten minutes, she realised they were going the wrong way.

  “This isn’t the way to the station,” Iris said.

  “I know,” Finch said, staring resolutely at the road, his large hands gripping the wheel in a five-to-one position. “That’s because we’re not going to the station. You’re not being sent to the Fens.”

  That was an unexpected surprise, and perhaps not a welcome one.

  “Where are we going, then?” Iris felt her hope returning. Was he taking her to see Evelyn?

  “There’s a farm about eighteen miles away,” Finch said, still not turning. “It’s called Jordan Gate. Strange name for a farm, don’t know how that came about.”

  “Why am I going there?”

  “You just are. I had a change of heart.”

  “Did you? Why?”

  Finch shook his head in annoyance, obviously hoping she would drop the matter. But Iris kept staring, waiting for an answer and he realised he couldn’t avoid it.

  “All right! Evelyn talked me round,” Finch said. And now, he glanced at Iris, as if stressing the point that she had Evelyn to thank for this. “She thought I was being harsh sending you to do Fen work. This way, perhaps you can come back in six months or so, providing you’ve straightened yourself out.”

  Iris’s mind was reeling. She supposed that this was good news. It literally wasn’t a million miles away and Finch was talking about it being a temporary measure. That was great, surely? And yet, something was nagging at her. She had to ask the question. Even if it risked upsetting him.

  “Why did Evelyn want to help me?” After all, she had been content to drug her, punch her and get her sent away. This wasn’t a woman who seemed inclined to do good deeds for Iris Dawson.

  Finch shrugged, his large lips forming into a fleshy overhang on his face. “I don’t pretend to understand you women. But just be grateful that she’s been kind to you. She didn’t have to be nice, not after how you carried on!”

  Iris nodded. She had no choice in the matter and could tell that Finch didn’t really want to talk about it. Besides, she had a new set of worries to think about. Evelyn hadn’t done the deal she was anticipating and yet she had seemed to help her.

  “What’s this Jordan place like, then?”

  “I’ve no idea. Never heard of it,” Finch said. “Still, I’m sure you’ll settle in.”

  “I wasn’t making trouble, you know.” Iris said. Finch put his hand up to cut her off. He didn’t want to hear any more.

  “I understand some of it. Don’t pretend to understand it all. Fact is, you’ve got to sort yourself out. Stop spreading lies about people. Let people do what they want.”

  “I didn’t want you to get hurt,” Iris said. And it was true. She didn’t want to see Finch destroyed by Evelyn Gray. And she knew, with cold certainty, that he would be, sooner or later. Evelyn had admitted that to her herself. But to her surprise, she didn’t have to explain what she was thinking because Finch got there first.

  “I had suspicions, like you. Suspicions she was using me.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. See, my boy, Billy, was getting married. To a Land Girl.”

  “Really?” Iris wondered where this was going. What relevance did this have to Evelyn and him?

  “Before your time, by about six months. Anyway, she was pregnant. Not by him.” Iris looked at Finch, wide-eyed. This was quite a revelation! “I’m telling you this to make you see. I don’t want it spreading about.”

  “It won’t be,” Iris said. “So he was marrying her, but the baby wasn’t his?”

  “And this is where I didn’t believe why she was doing it, see. I accused her of not loving my Billy, that she were just using him for decency’s sake. She was using him to get a roof for her baby’s head, a father’s name on its birth certificate.” Finch glanced at Iris, again, for emphasis. “Just like you thinking Evelyn was trying to get me for my money.”

  “That wasn’t why I thought -”

  But Finch cut her off. Hearing anything different would conflict with his theory, which he was obviously happy with. “But I saw that she really did love him. This Land Girl. It was me who was wrong, see?”

  Iris nodded. There was no point arguing. She didn’t want to upset him, especially as he had mentioned her coming back after a few months.

  They came to a fork in the road and Finch took the right-hand fork. She watched the scenery as Finch talked some more, about what had happened to Bea Finch and his grandson, William, but the w
ords washed over Iris as she tried to process the last few days. They passed a windmill on her left, one of its sails battered and in disrepair. She knew she had to focus on her new beginning. Without the note that Evelyn had written to John and Martin, she would never have the proof needed to convince Finch that his fiancée - soon-to-be fiancée - was a bad lot. And until she got that note, she knew Finch wouldn’t see any wrong in her. But maybe she should just walk away now. Maybe it wasn’t Iris’s concern any more.

  As the miles ticked by, Iris looked sadly at the big figure next to her. A kind, ebullient man, often armed with a ready quip and a warm heart. She would miss him. She cared for him and hoped that he would survive the inevitable heartache to come.

  Then she saw her own father at the wheel, a thinner man in a smart three-piece suit with a pencil moustache and waves of sandy hair. He was looking down at her, a smaller Iris in the passenger seat. She was a child. The sun was behind him, almost silhouetting his face. But she knew he was smiling. Her father was always smiling.

  Finch took a wrong turning and he cursed the lack of signposts. “It’s not just the Germans that get lost here,” he mumbled, reaching for a map and spreading it out over the steering wheel. When he was satisfied that he knew where he was going, he gave Iris the map to fold and set off again. She had barely folded it the correct way, when he got lost again and demanded another look. By late afternoon and many blind alleys, they reached a hill. A single track weaved its way up to a white-walled, double-storey farmhouse perched on the top. This was Jordan Gate. It had none of the homely charm of Pasture Farm, none of the welcoming atmosphere. Around the farm building were some outbuildings in a semi-circle, including a barn and four grain silos. Two tractors stood near one of the silos, and a mangy black dog skulked around the yard looking for rats.

  Welcome to your new home.

  Finch brought the car to a standstill and turned off the engine. He squeezed his large frame out of the vehicle and crossed to the passenger side, where Iris was already getting out. They collected her case from the back. Iris eyed the dog warily as she slowly followed Finch to the front door. He rapped on the wood and offered an awkward smile to Iris. This was it. The final moment was coming. The moment when they would say goodbye.