Land Girls, The Promise

by Roland Moore

  “Maybe Dr Channing can take a look later,” Iris replied, shrugging off his concern.

  She dreaded taking off the bandage, the prospect of seeing her fingers twisted and broken again made a chill rise from her stomach.

  Joyce returned with a wooden tray of rattling crockery and handed each of them a cup of tea. She sat down on the bench with them, sparing a few minutes from her duties.

  “How is Evelyn?” Iris asked.

  “No news yet. It doesn’t look good, though.” Joyce glanced down the corridor before fixing her eyes back on Iris. “Just to say, I told Lady Hoxley what had happened and she has telephoned PC Thorne. He’s got people out, volunteers mostly, at Evelyn’s cottage. So Finch will be all right. Oh, and they think they’ve found Vernon.”

  “Really?” Iris enquired, feeling a wave of relief.

  Joyce was about to explain, but she noticed a young doctor beckoning her back to work. “Excuse me.”

  As Joyce left, Iris felt a huge weight lifting from her shoulders. They’d caught Vernon. After all these weeks of anguish and torment as she first imagined he was waiting in every shadow, and then had been imprisoned by him, it was finally over. Iris got to her feet, her legs feeling shaky, as if someone else was operating them. “I just need a bit of fresh air.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Martin asked.

  “No, I’m all right,” Iris replied, flashing him a warm but exhausted smile.

  Frank and Martin watched as she shuffled along the corridor.

  Iris stood in the grand entrance of Hoxley Manor, the horseshoe-shaped driveway stretching out under the moonlight. Slowly she walked along the Tudor balustrade walkway, the windows of the hospital ward to her left illuminating her steps, and she thought about everything that had happened, everything she had been through. She wondered if there would be a trial. Would she have to give evidence against Vernon and his sister? Iris didn’t mind doing that, feeling empowered by what she had survived, by what she’d done. In a strange way, she had been given a second chance. After failing to save her father, she had managed to save Finch. It wasn’t the same, but it was something. It was a way of closing that chapter of her life.

  On the other side of the decorative walkway was a large area that was being turned into a vegetable patch, with wheelbarrows, tools and spades waiting for tomorrow’s workers. Even Hoxley Manor wasn’t exempt from the Dig for Victory campaign. Lady Hoxley felt torn between her obvious patriotic duty and her sadness at seeing her beloved rose gardens dug up to grow potatoes and turnips. Still, after the war, she could put the roses back. Iris wondered if she could work on the patch here. It would be a nice environment to cultivate, away from the dreary Shallow Brook Farm. She would ask Finch tomorrow. She thought he might be receptive to making things up with her.

  Iris looked at her bandaged right hand. Tentatively, she unpinned the bandage and unwound it slowly, as if it was an unwanted present. She gritted her teeth, wondering what state it would be in. She squeezed her eyes tight, so that she would only have to glimpse the damage through her eyelashes. Oh God, don’t let it be worse than before.

  When PC Thorne and his volunteers had arrived at Evelyn’s cottage, Finch nearly blew the policeman’s head off. Luckily, the farmer hesitated before firing the shotgun and lowered it as he saw the terrified face of the rotund officer.

  “I’ve had warmer welcomes, Fred,” PC Thorne said, mopping his brow.

  The volunteers piled into the house and PC Thorne sent them off. “You two search upstairs, you go out the back. You - see if there’s a cellar!” Then he turned to Finch, gently taking the shotgun from his hands. Finch hadn’t realised that he’d had such a tight grip on the weapon and PC Thorne almost had to prise it from his fingers. The policeman took in the wrecked crockery and scattered cutlery on the floor, the tablecloth wrenched off the table top. “What’s been happening here, Fred?”

  “I just came round for a spot of dinner,” Finch said, attempting to process what had happened with levity. But it was too shocking not to be serious. “And she tried to poison me.”

  “Evelyn Gray?” PC Thorne asked.

  Finch nodded. “I’ve no idea why. We hadn’t even got married yet. I can understand her bumping me off for my money if we were married.”

  “You always say you’ve got no money.” Thorne smiled.

  “That’s only when it’s my round.” The two friends laughed. PC Thorne bent down to pick up Evelyn’s brandy glass. He sniffed it and was about to speak when, suddenly, outside they heard a commotion. Shouts and sounds of someone being dragged against their will. PC Thorne spun around and headed for the door, followed by Finch. “I think they’ve got him! They’ve got him!”

  Finch came outside to see a ruddy-faced man in an ARP Warden helmet. He was puffing from the exertion of whatever he had been doing. He confirmed that they had caught a man nearby who fitted the description of Vernon Storey. PC Thorne pushed past Finch and went back into the house. He found the telephone and started to dial the exchange. “I should tell Hoxley Manor that we’ve got him. Put their minds at rest.”

  “Iris will be relieved all right.”

  Finch waited while PC Thorne asked to be connected to Hoxley Manor. He listened as the policeman left a message with a nurse at the Manor House. Then he replaced the receiver and headed outside. “There, that’s done.”

  PC Thorne and Finch walked behind the ARP man and followed him into the dead forest, the trees stretching up like skeletal fingers. Up ahead, in a clearing, Finch could make out two soldiers from the Home Guard wrestling with a thin, sallow man. They had him on the ground, trying to force his struggling hands behind his back. Finch bent down to see if he could recognise the face, but the angle of his head and the darkness of the night made it difficult. But finally, Finch caught a glimpse of the man as he raised his head. Finch motioned to the Home Guard soldiers to listen for a moment.

  It wasn’t Vernon Storey.

  Iris examined her fingers in the moonlight. She felt quite sick. Without the splint and the bandage, she could see them in their true horror. They were in a worse state than before, glistening with blood, twisted and purple. She tried to bend them, but it was too painful. She decided that she would ask one of the doctors to treat her, after all. Gingerly supporting her damaged hand, she turned to head back inside.

  She walked along the balustrade, the soft lights from the manor house playing on her face. Gentle music was wafting from somewhere in the Manor House. Was it ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’? Iris smiled. How that song was haunting her, seeming to appear at every turn in her life and -

  But then she saw a figure standing up ahead. A small figure, silhouetted in the moonlight.

  “Martin?”

  The figure took a step forward so that the light from the ward caught the side of his face. She could see pitted skin and a coal-black eye, glistening in the amber glow.

  Vernon Storey stood in front of her.

  She could see now that his face was contorted with fury, eyebrows pressed down in a grimace of anger.

  Iris knew she couldn’t reach the entrance to the Manor without going past him. And he was blocking the way. What should she do?

  She decided the best course of action was to back away. But as she took a step backwards, Vernon moved forward with surprising speed and clamped a hand over her mouth, roughly pushing her backwards over the Tudor balustrade. Iris toppled over the balcony, landing heavily on a bush below and hitting the wheelbarrow with her elbow. She felt an explosion of pain in her arm.

  “Help me!” Iris shouted.

  Vernon vaulted over the balcony and reached her before she had time to get up. She could see a spade that had been knocked from the wheelbarrow and she struggled to stretch out her good hand to reach it. Her fingers desperately splayed, she nearly reached the handle just as Vernon grabbed her legs and pulled her backwards, away from the weapon. Still she struggled away and managed to get a small purchase on the handle. But Vernon was on her
back, ramming her face into the soil.

  “Told you, I’d come back for you, Iris,” he hissed.

  “Not this time!” Iris shouted, arcing the spade round and catching Vernon on the side of the head.

  Clunk!

  He fell off her and to the side. But as Iris scrambled to her feet to get into a good position to bring it round again, Vernon punched her in the stomach. She dropped the spade and it clattered to the ground. Vernon’s face was bloodied by the impact of the spade, a gash snaking down his cheek. He loomed over her, disorientated, crazed.

  “Give me the map!”

  Iris tried to pull herself up, fighting for breath after being winded.

  “Don’t you care about your sister?”

  “What have you done to her?” He forced her head back onto the ground.

  “I’ve done nothing, but -”

  “Just hand the map over, girl! And I’ll let you go.”

  “All right,” Iris gasped. She knew that he was a man without remorse, without sympathy. He had come too far along the dark path, his psyche becoming twisted and psychotic since the murder of his son. Iris knew that she was in great danger, and that he had no intention of letting her go. But part of her also felt a furious, boiling anger at how this man had treated her. The fear and the drinking was because of him; her terror at every shadow had been caused by him. How dare he make her feel this scared. In some small way, she was going to make a stand. She was going to mess up his plans, even if it put her in even more peril.

  Iris made a decision.

  She scrambled to her feet, indicating for Vernon to give her room. Cautiously he took half a step back, watching her with his hawk-like eyes, his face glistening with blood from the gaping gash. Slowly, Iris reached into her dungarees and pulled out the piece of yellowing paper. It was folded tightly. Vernon’s eyes glinted. Finally, the prize. The prize that would enable him to start again.

  Iris moved her hand as if she was about to give it to Vernon.

  “Good girl.”

  But instead of handing it over, Iris tore it quickly in half, and then ripped it again into quarters. Vernon lunged at her, but she turned her body so she could continue shredding it, finally sending a dozen pieces of paper fluttering to the ground as if it was confetti.

  Vernon’s face contorted in anger. He fell to his knees to try to scoop up the precious pieces, but the breeze in the garden was scattering them across the vegetable patch. Then he noticed that Iris was making a break for it, running back to the balustrade.

  Iris hoped that he would concentrate on the map. She went to jump over the balustrade, but a hand grabbed her ankle, pulling her back. She fell onto the upturned wheelbarrow again, this time knocking out trowels and other small tools. She winced with the pain that bloomed in her lower back. Vernon was climbing on top of her, his yellow teeth gleaming with spittle and fury.

  Iris felt the same fear as before, when she had been pinned down by him in his farmhouse.

  “No,” she pleaded.

  “Too late, Iris,” Vernon said.

  Iris couldn’t move. He was too heavy and his weight was pushing the wind out of her lungs. She could feel metal tools from the wheelbarrow digging into her back beneath her. A drop of his blood splashed onto her cheek. She flailed at him, but he pushed her hands away. She froze in terror, her mind becoming paralysed as it had done before. She tried to struggle, but he pinned her arms down. Finally, after her ordeal tonight, even the adrenaline couldn’t give her any last burst of energy, any advantage. Iris felt her struggles diminishing as her breathing became more laboured.

  Vernon grabbed her face with one hand.

  With cold clarity, she knew he was going to kill her now.

  As she struggled weakly, she tried to bat him off with her damaged hand. She realised that Vernon had noticed it flailing at him.

  He grinned, grabbing her broken fingers in a vice-like grip. Iris silently howled in pain, tears falling from her eyes.

  But the pain broke her free from her terrified stupor, driving her to find the last vestiges of strength and resistance in her body. It was her last hope.

  With her good hand, Iris grabbed something from underneath her; anything. It was a small scythe. Without any warning, she plunged it hard into Vernon’s side.

  Now it was his turn for his face to contort in pain. Immediately he released his grip on her shattered hand and his grip on her face. Iris winced as her fingers were released, but with her other hand, she managed to push the handle of the scythe to propel Vernon off her. He fell heavily, tumbling over onto the vegetable patch. Iris noticed that the entire length of the blade of the scythe was embedded in Vernon’s side.

  Shakily, Iris stumbled to her feet, the wheelbarrow clattering beneath her. Tentatively, she walked over to her attacker. He was staring up at the moon, the light glinting in his eyes. The light was also glistening off the blood that was disappearing into the hungry earth.

  She was dimly aware of people running towards her from the entrance to Hoxley Manor. It was Frank and Martin. They reached her side and looked down at the body of Vernon Storey. Iris could hear voices asking if she was all right, a chorus of concern, but she couldn’t reply. She couldn’t really hear them.

  Iris stared numbly, exhausted. She dared to hope that now it really was over.

  Before the sun started to rise, Iris found herself in Dr Channing’s office having her fingers expertly set. He didn’t try to engage her in conversation, realising that she was too exhausted to talk. Instead, he offered comforting smiles as he worked. When it was finished, Iris looked at the solid paddle of wood that was now acting as a splint for her fingers and the tight white bandage that was wrapped around her hand. It felt much less painful.

  “It will heal. And you’ll soon be playing the piano again,” he said.

  “I don’t play the piano.”

  “It’s just an expression,” Channing replied, with a smile. “Now, you won’t be able to do heavy farm work for a while, so I’ll recommend that you help Esther with the meals for the time being. Is that all right?”

  Iris nodded. She thanked him and left his room. Martin and Frank walked her back towards the farm. On the way, Frank turned to her, his voice low and serious.

  “Evelyn died,” he said.

  Iris took this in. She felt oddly numb about everything. Even Martin smiling warmly at her as they walked didn’t make her feel anything. And ordinarily, she would have felt a flutter of nerves in her stomach coupled with a warm feeling. She assumed that she was too tired to function or think properly. She needed sleep, she needed a bath, she needed to get these wellington boots off. Tomorrow she would feel better.

  The cockerel failed to wake her, despite its best efforts, and Iris slept through until the next evening. She was back in her old room at Pasture Farm, Billy’s room, and her suitcase had been brought back to the farm from Evelyn’s cottage. After a hot bath, Esther helped her to bed. Knowing that it was over, and that she would be allowed to come back to Pasture Farm now, Iris slept deeply, with warm satisfaction. When she woke, she still felt exhausted, but she definitely felt better than she had. She couldn’t feel any pain in her fingers and that had contributed to her having an unbroken night of sleep.

  She reached into her suitcase and opened the small pocket inside. The rag doll was there. Iris took it out and held it. She squeezed it tightly and decided that it was time to say goodbye. The small figure had been her companion for all these years; giving her comfort during the dark times, but it was time to stand on her own two feet. She had proved that she could take on her worst nightmares and win. Iris didn’t need it any more.

  She placed the rag doll on the windowsill. It could stay there as an ornament for now.

  Iris wrapped a shawl around her nightie and hobbled downstairs. Her whole body ached and she had a variety of bruises fighting for attention on her face. Esther and Joyce were waiting in the kitchen, pleased to see her. They made her some food and a cup of tea. Iris was sur
prisingly hungry and she also happily drank a whole pot of tea. Esther seemed relieved to have her back. She promised to get a message to Iris’s mother to tell her that she was safe and well.

  “How was my mother when you saw her?” Iris enquired.

  “She seemed well,” Esther said, before looking at Joyce. “Would you give us a moment, love?”

  Joyce dried her hands and trotted out into the yard.

  When they were alone, Esther sat next to Iris.

  “She told me about what happened with your father.”

  “We’ve never really spoken about it,” Iris said, bluntly.

  “I’m sorry,” Esther said. “Would you like some leave? You could go back and clear the air.”

  “There’s only one thing I want to say, and I don’t think I could ever say it face to face.”

  “What?”

  But Iris clammed up. She asked if she could make another pot of tea. Esther watched as she struggled with the kettle and the tap with one hand, and then took over. But Iris hoped that the moment had passed and that she’d made it plain that she didn’t want to talk about it.

  Throughout the day, Iris had a succession of visitors. Joyce brought John to say hello and welcome back. Shelley came by to tell Iris how happy she was that she was safe, and finally Frank came to see her. After they spoke for a while, the topic of conversation turned to the issue of the map.

  “What do you think was buried?” Iris asked.

  “Don’t know.” Frank shrugged. “Me and Martin had a bit of a dig, and we were going to do some more. But we didn’t find anything.”

  “Shame I ripped it up, really,” Iris said.

  “Yeah,” Frank said, but a mischievous smile was playing on his lips; a smile that told Iris that something was up. “Good job I made a copy, wasn’t it?” Frank revealed a piece of graph paper with a copy of the map. “When we were digging, we needed some sort of scale to go by, so I copied it onto squared paper.”