by Roland Moore
The prospect of getting back on her feet and finding the rhythm of running again seemed a monumental effort. But she knew she had to try. Iris pushed her good hand against the road and dragged herself to her feet. She managed to stumble forward until she built up her momentum again. Clutching her bad hand as she ran, Iris could feel something wet against her knee. Glancing down, she saw the rip in her dungarees and she knew she had cut her knee open in the fall. How could she cut her knee? The thoughts came again, the thoughts from before -
- A bloody, painful gash on the girl’s right knee was hampering her progress. She’d fallen over in her haste, but she knew she couldn’t stop. She knew she had to keep running.
No, this wasn’t the same. This was different. That was a lifetime ago. She had to shut it out.
But now it was in her mind, growing as if it was a shadow at sunset, she couldn’t make it go away. Tears flooded down her face as she ran, not caused by the pain of her knee or the pain in her fingers, but from the awful memories. They were filling her thoughts, taking her back to that dark time.
The girl felt that her small chest would burst with the exertion as she ran over a wrought-iron bridge, slaloming around a mother with a large pram.
Iris gritted her teeth, dug down deep inside of herself and ran faster. Her mouth felt as dry as parchment and the sweat on her back was pulling her shirt taut with every step.
The mother turned to scold the clumsy child with the mane of red hair. But Iris Dawson was already on the other side of the bridge, running, running, running.
As Esther Reeves alighted from the last train to Helmstead, she looked up at the moonlit sky and wondered where Iris was. That poor girl. In the space of an afternoon and evening, Esther had learnt so much more about her, understanding a lot of what the seemingly happy-go-lucky 17-year-old had had to endure. Her childhood had been happy, idyllic, even, until it was taken from her in the space of an afternoon. One event had changed everything, casting a darkness over the rest of her life. Margot had broken down and told Esther the whole story.
Iris, 10 years old, was a happy, carefree child. She enjoyed playing with the other children of Stanley Street, including a boy named Brian Marley. Margot had told Esther that one day Iris had gone into Brian’s house, into his bedroom. She didn’t know what for, but presumed it was just another game, as the pair were close, having grown up together -
Iris had expected to feel something when she pressed her lips against Brian Marley’s, but it was all very underwhelming. Why did adults like kissing? She couldn’t see the attraction. Brian shrugged. He liked it, but said he didn’t want to do it again. That was fine for Iris. She had tried it and didn’t have to kiss anyone in the future now. Iris and Brian raced downstairs, planning a game of football before teatime -
But as they rushed outside, Iris found her mother standing in the street, moving slowly around, as if she wasn’t sure what to do. What was happening? Seemingly dazed, Margot didn’t seem to recognise Iris at first, but then she grasped the child by the shoulders with an urgency that alarmed the young girl -
“When they ran out of the Marley house, I was outside our front door. In a daze. A bit of a panic. I wasn’t sure what to do, and at first I was surprised to see Iris,” Margot had told Esther. “I said as calmly as I could, although it probably didn’t sound very calm, that her father had collapsed in the kitchen.”
“It’s very serious what’s happened. It’s your dad …”
Margot had continued the story for Esther. “Ivor had had a heart attack. One minute he was joking as we were making the sandwiches for tea, the next he was on the floor, clutching his chest, gasping for breath. I ran outside as we’ve never had a telephone. And then I got there, I didn’t know what to do.”
“I can get the doctor,” Iris said, her big eyes narrowing as she contemplated the task. The doctor lived over the other side of the city, perhaps twenty minutes by foot. Brian Marley stood numbly behind Iris. All thoughts of their first (and last) kiss were forgotten.
Margot Dawson. Her eyes were large and fearful. “Iris?” she said, grabbing her daughter and pulling her towards her. Margot knelt down, her voice deliberate but brittle. “Can you really do this, darling?”
They both knew that everything was resting on this.
Iris nodded. She touched her mother lightly on the shoulder, a silent promise. A child’s promise.
Then she hared off down the street. Her squeaky patent- leather shoes thundering over the cobbles as Margot watched her go. When Iris was out of sight, Margot ran back inside to her husband.
The mantelpiece clock said ten to nine. Evelyn struggled to find a warm smile for Fred as he tucked into the apple batter pudding she had made. Much as she hated the idea, she knew what she would have to do in ten minutes. That’s what Vernon wanted. And she owed Vernon, didn’t she? The whole sorry mess made her feel queasy, but she had to get through it, do what was expected. Then it would be over and she and Vernon would have a new beginning.
Fred was also struggling to be relaxed. He was thinking about the ring in his pocket. When should he do it? When would be the best moment? He decided that after the meal would be the best time. In about ten minutes or so.
Iris approached the White Oak. She didn’t notice that the shutters were now in darkness as it had closed for the night. She didn’t notice the two farmhands standing in the road, saying their goodbyes to each other. They saw her, the Land Girl running towards them, her chin bloodied, her hair drenched in perspiration, her dungarees torn and the fingers of her right hand held at a strange angle.
“Here, love, are you all right?” one of the men enquired. “Love?”
Iris couldn’t speak, her tongue felt as if it had ossified on the roof of her dry mouth. She shook her head and ran past. The man went to grab her, but she batted him away. She flashed him an angry look and continued to run.
Her watch said that it was seven minutes to nine.
“Can you really do this, darling?” She heard her mother’s voice, from across the years.
“She ran as fast as she could to get the doctor,” Margot Dawson had told Esther. “But it was too far, and by the time they got back -” Margot struggled to continue, the memory too upsetting. “We never really spoke about what happened.”
“I’m sorry,” Esther said, placing her hand on Margot’s. Margot started to cry. At first she tried to stop herself, for decency’s sake, but she couldn’t, even in front of a stranger. Esther knew that losing her husband was now compounded with losing her daughter. It would be too much for anyone to bear, and she was surprised that Margot hadn’t broken down before. She let Margot cry at the dining table. And she didn’t stop crying for twenty minutes.
Iris felt that her body was beyond pain now. She had pushed it so far that everything but the desperate desire to get back to the cottage had been buried. It was willpower that was keeping her going. Even the memories were only struggling to the surface, half-glimpsed rather than fully formed sequences in her head.
“Can you really do this, darling?”
Three minutes to nine.
The grazed knee of a 10-year old girl as she sat in the doctor’s car. She’d got to the doctor’s house and he was driving them back. Why couldn’t he drive them back to their house any faster?
She ran around a corner and finally her nightmare looked as if it was over. Evelyn’s cottage was up ahead, sitting alone in its valley, the downstairs lights on.
Two minutes to nine.
Her mother, crying in a neighbour’s arms as the doctor’s car pulled up. Iris knew she was too late as she got out. “Mum?” she said, but her mother didn’t notice her.
Iris stumbled and fell, but she was too close now. Too close to give up. This time she would make it. This time she would save him. The promise would be kept. She pulled herself to her feet, ragged and broken, and ran down the dirt track to the cottage.
Evelyn stared at the dirty dishes in the sink. She heard Finch belch from the other room, follow
ed by him uttering a hasty and embarrassed, “Oh, pardon me.” Feeling resigned to the inevitability of what she had to do, but finding no joy in it, she pulled out two glass tumblers from the larder. One of them had the crushed leaves of the Deadly Nightshade plant in it. She used a teaspoon to carefully take out the leaves, leaving a drop or two of highly toxic green liquid at the bottom. You could hardly see it, but she knew it would be enough to kill him. She poured a tot of good-quality brandy into each glass. Vernon had reassured her that everything would turn out fine. Even if they had to murder bumbling Farmer Finch to get what they wanted. Vernon planned to bury Finch’s body in waste ground at the back of the cottage. It was a place where no one passed by. A place no one ever came. Evelyn took a deep breath to steady her nerves. She had to trust her brother. She had to believe that he would make this turn out fine. She owed him.
“I’m getting you a brandy,” Evelyn shouted to the other room. “It’s good stuff that I’ve had since before the war.”
“Oh, that sounds perfect.” Finch said with a chuckle.
Evelyn picked up the two glasses and went back into the living room, ensuring she kept her eye on the one in her right hand. The poisoned chalice. She put the glasses down, the right one in front of Finch. She smiled and then went over to the mantelpiece to check the time. Finch picked up the glass, enjoying the weight of the crystal in his hand. He looked at the rich, brown liquid. It looked good stuff. And it looked just like the Dutch courage he needed at this moment in time. Surreptitiously, Finch reached into his pocket and placed the engagement ring on the table, ensuring it was covered by his meaty hand.
“Cheers,” Finch said, raising up his glass in a toast.
Evelyn walked back to the table and raised her own glass. “Cheers.”
“After this, there’s something I want to ask you …” Finch took a big slug of his drink and winced. It tasted a bit strange.
One minute to nine.
Iris reached the front gate. She bounded up the path and hammered on the door. There was no reply. She hammered again, finding herself making desperate half-formed words in an attempt to shout. But she couldn’t find her voice. She hammered a final time on the door and then, to her surprise, found her legs buckling beneath her. She collapsed on her back on the path. Her body had finally given up on her.
“Mum?” the 10-year-old girl said as she got out of the doctor’s car and approached her crying mother.
She had made it this time, surely? It was one minute to nine when she knocked. She’d made it.
Hadn’t she?
A little girl looking lost on a cobbled street in Northampton as the doctor rushed into the house with her mother, the door shutting behind them, shutting her out.
This wasn’t fair. Don’t shut me out. Let me in. I tried to do it, I tried …
“Mum?” She’d tried her best. She’d run as fast as she could -
Dimly, as if it was in another world, Iris heard the front door open. All she could see was the inky blackness above her and she couldn’t find one iota of strength to move her head to look behind her. She heard the shuffle of footsteps, someone coming out from the cottage. She braced herself for a confrontation she couldn’t win. Not in this state.
Finch’s face appeared above her.
Was he dead?
Floating, like a dream above her. He looked confused.
“Iris?” he said, slowly. “What are you -?”
And then he became distracted by something further along the path. Iris could hear people running and, dimly, above the sound of her own thumping heart, she could hear familiar voices.
“Finch? You all right?”
“What’s happened to Iris?”
It was Frank. And Martin. Her own special cavalry. What were they doing here?
Iris tried to grip the path with her good hand, to raise herself up. Martin was by her side, helping her, his kind, boyish face overwhelmed with relief at seeing her again. As Iris staggered to her feet, allowing herself to be supported in his arms, she managed to turn to the cottage. Frank and Finch were rushing back inside. Iris pulled away from Martin, desperate to follow, but she started to stumble. Her legs were like jelly. Martin helped her, placing his hand under her armpit. Realising she wanted to go inside, he helped her along the path. They entered the front door together, almost jamming themselves in the small opening.
The first thing Iris noticed was the tablecloth. It had been almost wrenched off the table, half of it wrapped around Evelyn Gray’s wrist. She was lying, unmoving on the floor, faint gurgling noises coming from her throat. Her face was bright red, her eyes sticking out, almost like organ stops. A small amount of vomit was on the carpet next to her head.
“I think she tried to poison me,” Finch said numbly. “But I thought she had more brandy than me, so I -”
He mimed switching the glasses. His old trick. The same one Iris’s father had done at that Lyons Corner House on the day they missed the train. It looked as though Finch’s greed had saved his life.
But why was the poison even on the table? Surely she’d made it in time. Perhaps with a minute to spare, but still she’d made it …
She looked at the wristwatch. It was nine o’clock.
She’d made it! So why was Evelyn dying on the floor?
As her senses came back to her, Iris glanced at the mantelpiece clock and realised it said three minutes past nine. Iris had made it back in time! She had saved Finch. It wasn’t her fault that Evelyn’s clock was fast.
A little girl staring at the door of her family home, wishing it would open and that her mother would run to her and embrace her.
Iris forced herself to think about the memory; forcing herself to accept what had happened. History had repeated itself, in its own perverse way, and Iris had been given a second chance. Or if not a second chance, then a chance to come to terms with her past. And she realised that she had had to save Finch to do that. This time she had done it. This time she had saved him. And in doing that, perhaps she had laid the ghosts of that afternoon in Northampton to rest.
“We need to get her to Hoxley Manor,” Frank announced. Martin and Finch began to untangle Evelyn from the tablecloth, cutlery clattering to the floor. The three men carried Evelyn outside towards the pony and trap. Iris would have helped, but she was too weak. She could barely walk and her breathing still hadn’t returned to normal. She was in no state to help anyone, even herself. She glanced around the room of the cottage and noticed something glistening on the bare tabletop. The glint of a diamond ring wrapped in a handkerchief.
Had Finch asked Evelyn to marry him?
Finch and Frank returned. “Iris, you should come with us. Finch is going to stay here.”
“Apparently the pony can’t take the weight of all of us,” he said, looking mildly offended that he’d been the person selected to remain behind. “And it’s a good idea to get you looked at, after what you’ve been through.”
Iris hesitated. She struggled to find the saliva to talk, but managed to get out the words. A warning.
“Vernon is here, somewhere.”
This time, after all Finch had been through, there was no doubting her. He looked worried.
“What should we do?”
Frank thought of a solution. “There’s a shotgun on the trap. You take that and lock yourself inside until we can get back. If he tries to break in, let him have both barrels.”
“All right.” Finch nodded. Iris stayed momentarily behind to check he was okay. Finch smiled warmly at her and nodded.
“We’ll be back as soon as we can,” Iris said. Frank returned with the shotgun and handed it to Finch.
As Iris and Frank left the room, Finch retrieved his diamond ring from the table, popping it back into his pocket.
Once outside, Iris approached the trap. Martin was tucking Evelyn under a blanket, as Iris clambered up, her weak legs struggling to climb. Martin and Frank were up the front. She hauled herself over the lip of the trap and sat in a corner. S
he looked down at the unconscious figure of Evelyn Gray, covered up to the neck with a beige utility blanket. She was breathing quickly and shallowly, her face bright red and wracked with fever. Would she live? Iris was too exhausted to think. She felt her head loll as Frank took the reins and steered the pony around onto the dirt track. They set off for Hoxley Manor as fast as they could go.
Chapter 19
“You should have a cup of tea. A cup of tea always helps,” Joyce said, kindly. She was dressed in her makeshift hospital uniform, complete with a white apron and nurse’s hat. A dried splash of blood was on the rim of the hat. Iris smiled weakly at her friend’s words. She nodded her thanks and Joyce went off to make a new pot. Iris and Frank were waiting in the main corridor of the East Wing of Hoxley Manor, sitting on the long wooden bench that stretched the entire length of the corridor. The lights were subdued and the military hospital had a feeling of eerie calm about it, with hardly any people milling about at this time of night. They could hear periodic coughing and loud snoring coming from the nearby wards. They had been waiting for nearly two hours since they arrived with Evelyn Gray. She was unconscious for the whole rickety journey on the pony and trap. Iris wondered if she was already dead, but when they arrived, the nurses burst into an activity that told her there was still hope. Iris wanted her to live so she could be punished for what she had done.
In that time, while they had been waiting for news, Iris had managed to speak about what happened. She told Frank and Martin the whole tale of how she escaped from Jordan Gate; how Vernon Storey had chased her in the night and how she had ended up imprisoned in Evelyn’s cottage. As she finished telling them about the race tonight to get back to the cottage, she realised that Martin was open-mouthed with shock and Frank was shaking his head in disbelief. They sat in silence for a few minutes, taking it all in. Iris was silent, partly to give them time to digest it and partly because she was exhausted.
After some time, Frank spoke.
“Do you think you should get your hand looked at?” He nodded towards Iris’s right hand. She had to keep it raised because it throbbed painfully if she kept it down at her side. “I think you broke your fingers when you fell down that quarry.”
