by Roland Moore
Iris smiled. “We can find the treasure.”
“If it is treasure. Who knows what it could be?”
The following Sunday, Frank, Martin and Iris set off to the North Field in the pony and trap. They were joined there by Finch, Joyce, John and Shelley. Despite it being everyone’s day off, they were pitching in together to help dig some holes. Finch, Frank and Esther had spent the previous evenings studying the map in detail, trying to decipher its vague outlines and sparse information. And now, Frank allocated different areas to each of them and they took spades and began to dig up the ground. Shelley started a sing-song in a bid to keep everyone uplifted and motivated, but hopes of a quick victory were scuppered as the treasure hunt stretched from minutes into hours. It wasn’t only the lack of detail that made things difficult; they also had no idea how deep they were supposed to dig. There was the fear that they might have discovered the correct location but simply not dug deep enough. As morale started to flag, Esther brought out some packed lunches and water, and after a brief break, everyone resumed their work. Iris felt like a spare part, unable to dig because of her injury, but she spent the time talking to Martin. Everyone said she should be resting anyway.
“It’s good to have you back,” Martin said.
“It’s good to be back,” Iris replied.
“Your fella is still hanging on.”
“What?”
“That GI. He’s still unconscious in the hospital.”
“Oh.” Iris took this in. “He’s not my fella.”
Martin offered a small smile, relief in his eyes. Now Iris felt a warm glow.
Esther and Frank looked on at the happy youngsters, clearly bonding and enjoying their time together.
“We should really make fun of them,” Frank said with a wry smile.
“Let them have a day off,” Esther replied.
As work continued, Iris walked between groups, making small talk, feeling as if she was a guest at one of Lady Hoxley’s cocktail parties. She found Finch, who was, unusually, taking part in the digging. Bending down, Iris kept her voice low so that no one could hear them.
“I’m sorry how things worked out, Mr Finch,” she said.
Finch nodded, keeping his head down. “They said you got there in time to save me,” he said.
“That’s right. And if Evelyn’s clock hadn’t been running fast, you wouldn’t even have known about the poison.” Iris smiled.
There was a silence between them, neither knowing really what to say. After what seemed like an age, Finch mumbled, “Thanks.” He gave her a heartfelt look. Iris knew that things would be all right between them. Things would be back to normal.
Iris looked across the field at her friends, busy trying to find a dream on a piece of paper. She felt thankful that she had these people in her life. Friends away from home, friends in time of war. Friends who would help her if she needed it. A surrogate family of kindly souls.
Suddenly, Frank shouted out. “I’ve found something!”
Everyone downed tools and scrambled over to where he was digging, crowding round for a look. Iris got there at the same time as Joyce and Shelley. They looked expectantly as Frank pulled a soft leather pouch from the ground. He brushed off the dirt from it on his trousers and then went to carefully unfold it in his hand.
He opened it as if it was delicate parchment. Inside was paper, folded up tightly into a coil. Iris squinted and realised that the paper was bank notes. Frank unrolled the notes, hastily counting them as he went. It took a while.
“Blimey, there’s nearly eight hundred pounds here …”
Soon, Iris, Shelley, Joyce, Frank, Finch, Martin, John and Esther were back in the farmhouse, having a well-deserved pot of tea. The bundle of money was in the centre of the table, attracting fantasies about what it would be spent on if each of them had it. But Esther had suggested what she considered the fairest plan and everyone had agreed on what to do with it. Now they waited nervously for the back door to open.
“When will she come?” Iris asked.
“In her own sweet time,” Finch commented, earning a scowl from Esther.
As they finished their tea, there was a soft but insistent knock on the door. They knew it would be her. Esther opened it to admit Lady Hoxley, dressed in a pale-blue dress and matching coat, understated but expensive makeup on her porcelain features.
“Hello, Mrs Reeves.”
“Hello, Lady Hoxley,” Esther said, pointing to the bank notes. “We thought it might be the fairest solution.”
“And you’re certain that Mr Storey has no living relatives?” Lady Hoxley asked.
“Not human ones, any road!” Finch blurted out, forgetting himself.
“Fred!” Esther scolded, before turning back to Lady Hoxley. “Sorry. No, Vernon had another son, but he died on the front. There isn’t anyone else, as far as we know.”
“And no one knows of the existence of this money?”
There was a chorus of people saying no.
“Then I suppose I cannot see a reason why we shouldn’t use the money as you suggest, Mrs Reeves.”
Martin flashed a happy smile at Iris. Everyone was excited by this response. It seemed the best thing to do with the money. The best thing to extract some good from a horrible situation. It would go towards something that each and every one of them believed in and supported.
“So I will donate it to the Spitfire Fund, then,” Lady Hoxley said, picking up the money. “Thank you, everyone.”
She turned on her expensive heels, but she stopped for moment before leaving.
“Oh, there’s a girl outside to see Iris.”
Puzzled, Iris went to the door, Esther coming with her. They opened it to see a thin blonde girl standing in the yard. She was dressed in a Women’s Land Army uniform that was two sizes too big for her.
“Maureen?” Iris exclaimed.
“Who’s Maureen?” Esther asked.
“I may have said she could join us …” Iris smiled sheepishly.
Chapter 20
Joyce Fisher was there when Private First Class Joe Batch opened his eyes. She had been busy checking his routine readings, his temperature and blood pressure, when he regained consciousness. Joyce flashed a panicked smile at the American, before immediately rushing out of the private room to fetch the doctor. When she found him, Dr Channing was just as speedy in his response. He ran down the corridor, got some supplies from the stock cupboard, placed them in a kidney bowl and met Joyce back at the soldier’s bedside. They looked at the prone figure in front of them, his eyes half-open in his battered face.
“Do you want me to do anything, Dr Channing?”
“It’s probably best if you give us some room, Mrs Fisher.” Channing smiled. “I’ll give you a shout if I need assistance.”
“Should I fetch the guard?” Joyce asked. Since his admission, Joe had been guarded by a member of the military police. She supposed that it was mainly for his own protection, since with two broken legs, a broken back and a broken arm, he wasn’t going to run off anywhere. But the guard had gone outside for a cigarette, obviously viewing his work of minding an unconscious man as less than engaging.
“Don’t trouble him. I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” Channing said. “In fact, if you see him, tell him to wait outside for a few minutes until I finish my examination.” Joyce nodded and left the room. Swiftly, Dr Channing went to the door and closed it, listening for any sounds. When he was satisfied that no one was around, he walked back to Joe’s bedside. The soldier couldn’t move his head, but he was watching Channing keenly.
“Life is all about making judgements. We decide something, a course of action, a person’s guilt, whatever. But sometimes we’re wrong in those judgements. And sometimes there’s a moment when the penny drops that we’re wrong, isn’t there? We can believe in something adamantly, only to suddenly realise that we were wrong all along. Don’t you find?” Channing didn’t expect a reply. Instead he leaned in close so that he could see Joe’s
eyes, now filling with a look of unease.
“They said you were chasing after Frank Tucker. They said you believed that he’d heard you talking about the Panmere operation. You were going to get even with him. You adamantly believed that he’d betrayed you, didn’t you? And yes, he might have overheard you, apparently. But now you might have realised something else. And if you haven’t realised it yet, then I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before you do.”
He could see that Joe was struggling to understand.
“So that leaves me with a big problem, doesn’t it?”
“What?” Joe had difficulty forming the word in his dry mouth.
“I’m very sorry.” Channing smiled.
Suddenly it hit Joe like a steam train, the realisation of what had happened. A knot instantly filled his stomach, his body shivering with the rush of adrenaline, as the pieces fell into place. Frank’s words in the forest came back to him.
“Because someone else must have known.”
And Joe remembered talking to Chuck in the hospital, in this hospital. Chuck had mentioned the Panmere Lake operation. And Channing had been in the room too.
“You heard …”
Channing watched as the soldier’s eyes filled up with terror.
“That’s right, I did hear,” he said, pleasantly. “For me, it was always a risk as to when you’d realise. If you would realise. In a lot of ways, I’m grateful you didn’t realise when you were able-bodied. I’m not sure I could stop you in a fair fight.” He smiled as if talking to a friend.
“Get … guard,” Joe mouthed, but his words were barely more than a whisper.
“Oh, let him have his cigarette. The poor chap needs a break,” Channing said. “I hope you’ll take some small solace from knowing you were right in the end. It’s a shame for you that you realised too late. Tragic, really.”
Despite his broken body, Joe managed to move his good arm and grab Channing’s wrist. The doctor looked mildly surprised at the reflexes of his patient. “Very good,” Channing said. “But unfortunately you don’t have the strength any more, do you?”
Channing prised open the soldier’s fingers, the sweaty digits offering little resistance. He watched impassively as Joe winced.
Then Channing calmly crossed to a trolley of supplies across the room. He picked up a pillow and moved swiftly back to the soldier’s side. “I’d like you to think I’m not a bad man. But this is war. And it’s a more complex situation than you can imagine. But for now, all you need to know is that you are in the way. I cannot allow you to tell anyone. I’m really very sorry.”
And with all his strength, Channing pushed the pillow over Joe’s face, forcing it hard down over his mouth and nose. The soldier struggled for a few seconds, but Channing kept the pressure up. After a few moments, Joe Batch stopped struggling and went limp. Channing waited for a moment to be sure, and then he took the pillow away. Casually, he threw it over the room onto the trolley, exhaled deeply, and checked his patient’s pulse. A small look of relief played on Channing’s face.
At that moment, Joyce entered. Channing instantly retrieved his cool, detached demeanour.
“He’s dead, I’m afraid,” Dr Channing said, looking at his pocket watch. “Mrs Fisher? Would you record the time of death as sixteen minutes past seven?”
Joyce picked up the clipboard at the end of the soldier’s bed, but hesitated. Channing noticed and stepped closer.
“He was all right a moment ago,” she said, confused.
“He was very badly injured. But sometimes people can rally at the last moment, can’t they?”
“I suppose.”
“Let’s fill in the form, then.” Channing offered a consoling look. “His injuries were very severe.”
“Yes, Dr Channing.” Joyce noted down the time of death and replaced the clipboard at the end of the bed.
Although Lady Hoxley kept her promise and gave all the discovered money to the Spitfire Fund, she decided to spend some of her own money to host a small party for the Land Girls. They had been through so much in the last few months. So when the vegetable patches were finished around Hoxley Manor, Lady Hoxley threw a double celebration. The party would commemorate the hard work of the girls who had turned her rose gardens into vegetable patches and also the bravery of Iris Dawson. About forty people filled a small marquee that had been erected. Lady Hoxley had booked a trumpet player for the occasion. He was currently playing ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’. Iris still disliked the song as much as the first time she’d heard it.
For her part, Iris felt a little overwhelmed by all the attention, managing to clam up spectacularly whenever Lady Hoxley tried to speak to her. Instead, she found a corner of the marquee and sat down with Joyce and Shelley. She remembered the last dance they went to, the one where Evelyn Gray had engineered to meet Finch. Suddenly, Joyce cleared her throat to let Iris know that they were being watched. From across the tent, Martin was looking over towards them.
“He’s plucking up courage again,” Joyce whispered.
“No need,” Iris replied, getting to her feet and crossing towards him.
“I was going to ask if you wanted a dance?” Martin said, a little surprised by her meeting him halfway. Iris told him that she hated ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’. She wasn’t sure she wanted to dance to that.
“Could we go outside instead? My hand isn’t up to dancing at that speed. It still throbs,” Iris said, lifting her right hand. It was dressed in a much smaller bandage than before, with a thin splint instead of the paddle that Dr Channing had used at first. Outside, Martin and Iris looked at the stars. Iris noticed him sneaking a glance at her rosy, red lips, which came courtesy of Connie’s lipstick. She wondered if he was going to kiss her. She thought of those films where the hero just grabbed the girl and planted a smacker on her. But in the end she was grateful that he tried a different approach.
“Would you mind if I kiss you?” Martin said, plucking up courage.
She looked at his boyish, handsome face, with its big, kind eyes. And she thought about Brian Marley when she was 10 years old, the stickiness of toffee on his lips. Maybe it was time to try this kissing business again?
Iris nodded and they brought their lips closer, nervously, together and kissed. She liked the softness of his lips and the slight roughness to his cheek where he hadn’t shaved. At first it was chaste and barely more than a peck. But they soon realised that they both enjoyed it and within minutes they were passionately kissing. After a while, they both broke away, breathless and flushed.
“Was it all right?” Martin asked, a sudden glimmer of self-doubt in his eyes.
“I might need to check it again.” Iris smiled, a pretend look of concern on her face. With her splint resting on the back of his neck, she drew him close and they kissed again. This time they didn’t stop for a long, long time.
Margot Dawson was just about to leave for the factory. She wasn’t relishing the prospect of another twelve-hour shift, especially as she had completed two equally long shifts over the last two days. Feeling a weariness in her bones, she opened her front door and stepped out to find the postman outside. He smiled, tipped his cap and handed her a letter. Margot was about to put the letter inside when something about it caught her eye.
The envelope was handwritten with uneasy and unevenly sized letter shapes, as if it had been written by a young child.
Margot didn’t recognise the writing. Who was it from? Intrigued, she stopped a moment and opened it, not caring if she was a few minutes late for her shift.
The lilac-coloured paper felt heavy between her fingers. It was expensive. She unfolded it and squinted at the writing. It was a short letter, but as soon as she realised who it was from, it brought tears welling up in her eyes.
It was from Iris.
This was the letter that her daughter had always wanted to write. The words she had always wanted to say. Frank had helped her, the two resuming her nightly lessons in reading and writing, when her hand had he
aled.
And as her skills improved, Iris took the plunge and wanted to try to write a real letter home. She told Frank that it would be short. Offering encouragement, he thought that even saying hello would warm her mother’s heart and make her feel proud. But Iris said she wanted to write something different. Something she had always wanted to say, but could never say out loud. Words that had always been hidden in her relationship with her mother; words that needed to be said to clear the air between them. She knew that this was her chance. A chance to tell her mother something without the stomach-churning awkwardness of having to sit across the dining table and say it aloud, without having to see the reaction on her face. Without the risk of facing rejection.
And now, Margot stared at the letter, her shoulders heaving in a silent and primal sob. The tears fell down her cheeks, but she didn’t try to catch them with her fingers. She let them come. It wasn’t the joy of seeing the first letter from her daughter. It was the message, written in less than ten words, that broke her heart.
The letter said:
Dear Mum,
I’m sorry. Please forgive me.
Love
Iris xxx
Margot smiled as she cried, saddened that Iris felt the need to say those words. She wanted to hug her daughter close to her and squeeze her tightly and tell her how much she loved her, how much she had always loved her. Margot never blamed Iris for not fetching the doctor in time. She’d done her best. It was one of those things; an example of fate dealing a spectacularly cruel hand. But Margot knew that she had never spoken about it afterwards with Iris. That was her failing. She had been reluctant to open up the old wounds of that day. And maybe Iris had misconstrued that as a damning silent judgement about her efforts to save her father. For her part, Margot hadn’t even remembered shutting Iris outside as she and the doctor fought to revive her father. That had been a momentary decision, done to protect the child from seeing the inevitable end. Iris viewed that as a rejection, a judgement, not realising what it really was.
Margot felt wracked with guilt of her own. She had to put Iris straight, lift this dreadful weight from the girl’s shoulders.
