A Wartime Friend

by Lizzie Lane

  Feeling just a little contrite, she paused by the door. ‘Are you going to be all right?’

  Mrs Crow helped herself to a bite of cake and grunted. ‘I’m going to have to be, aren’t I?’

  ‘Then I’ll be going. Let me know if there’s anything you want.’

  Mrs Crow grunted again before taking another bite of cake. ‘You make a good plum cake,’ she shouted after Meg as she made her way out of the door.

  Meg threw her a thankful smile.

  ‘And shut the door behind you. I’ve had enough visitors for one day. I don’t want any more!’

  ‘I will indeed,’ Meg murmured beneath her breath.

  Lily ran on ahead, straight to the place where they’d left Rudy tied to the gate post of the field next door. He wasn’t there. Lily whirled around on her heels looking for him and calling out. ‘Rudy! Rudy! Where are you?’

  Meg felt leaden. Frantically she looked and shouted just as Lily had done. Suddenly she saw him. ‘There he is!’

  He was on the other side of the village green, ranging up and down the hedge surrounding Mrs Dando’s cottage, pausing each time he got to the closed gate. The gate had remained closed ever since Mrs Dando’s death.

  ‘Rudy!’

  Lily dashed across the village green. Meg followed behind her, wishing she were wearing more sensible shoes as she sprinted over the green grass. Lily shouted Rudy’s name again. The two collided and Lily threw her arms around his neck. The dog licked her face in greeting before his intelligent eyes returned to fix on the front door of Mrs Dando’s cottage. He seemed very agitated, pawing at the garden gate, whimpering as though in sorrow for the lady who had been kind to him.

  Meg was still dwelling on Mrs Crow and the flowers. She had no patience this morning for a stubborn dog. ‘Now what’s this all about, Rudy? It’s no good looking for Mrs Dando. She doesn’t live there any more.’

  The dog whimpered.

  Meg looked up at the cottage windows, small squares beneath overhanging eaves of red pan tiles. Above them was a dormer window set into the main structure of the roof, its panes of glass as small as those on the first floor. The windows stared vacantly back, like dead eyes reflecting the clouds and scene around them.

  She shook her head. The dog’s behaviour was a mystery unless he was remembering Mrs Dando and how kind she’d been. Meg ruffled his ears. ‘Mrs Dando is gone, Rudy. You live with us now.’

  The dog whined one more time but seemed to understand.

  ‘Come on, Rudy. We have to go home,’ said Lily, tugging him gently until he finally wagged his tail and did as he was told. ‘Why did he run away?’ asked Lily as they made their way back to Bluebell Cottage, her big eyes full of concern.

  Meg shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps it was because he suddenly remembered Mrs Dando. She was very kind to him when he first came to the village.’

  Neither Meg nor Lily noticed the twitching of a curtain high up in the attic window. Neither did they see Bert Dando’s nervous look. He’d covered his tracks regarding the damage he’d done to Mrs Crow’s garden. Nobody could have traced him – except for the dog. Everyone knew dogs had a keener sense of smell than humans. Still, as long as he lay low for the next couple of days, he should be all right. Two days was enough time to sort out old grievances and destroy that bloody dog!

  Now for my next trick, he thought to himself, gloating at the prospect of what he intended to do next. Fred Grimes had once scolded him for throwing stones at his garden shed. He guessed Mrs Crow would accuse the old man of trampling her garden seeing as the pair of them had been feuding for years. Well, how about adding a bit of ammunition to the warring pair? Give them something to fight about?

  Bert chuckled, got out the last cigarette in the packet and began to make plans.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Fred Grimes lived in a cottage that didn’t have plumbed-in water, which meant that each morning he had to fill his kettle from the old pump outside the back door. Come winter, summer, spring or autumn, he was a man who rose early, revelling in the freshness of morning when it seemed the world was empty of people, most of whom were still in bed. Dew-spotted cobwebs strung between golden rod and wild poppies, glistening like jewels in the morning light. Fred relished this time of year, loving the freshness of it after the over-exuberance of summer; the crispness of a new September day.

  On this particular morning, he took only one deep breath before he saw the desecration of his garden and his jaw dropped. Stiff-kneed or not, he tottered back inside as quickly as he could, slammed the kettle down on the kitchen table, grabbed his overcoat and dashed out. It pained him to run, but he went as fast as he could down the garden path and out of the gate, heading for PC Carter’s house.

  Carter glanced at his watch when he heard the frantic knocking on his door. ‘Now what?’

  Fred was red in the face, his hand was on his chest and he was breathing heavily. PC Carter opened the door wider. ‘You’d better come in. Take a seat and tell me all about it.’

  Fred almost fell on to the proffered Windsor chair – Carter’s favourite. For the moment he would stand. ‘Don’t hurry. Get your breath first, Fred.’

  Fred took great gulps of air. ‘It was her! I knows it was her,’ he cried excitedly. ‘It’s revenge for what she thinks I did to her garden. But I didn’t do nothing. Nothing at all! The old witch! And now she does this!’

  Carter, his own kettle just boiled and the teapot ready for the first brew of the day, rubbed at the bridge of his nose and the corners of his eyes with finger and thumb. ‘Your garden’s been trampled?’

  Fred nodded. ‘Yes. It bloody well ’as.’

  The village policeman sighed. ‘Look. I’m just about to pour myself a cup of tea. We can talk about it while we have a cuppa. How will that be?’

  Fred was in no mood for polite conversation, until he perceived the whiff of bread fried in bacon fat. ‘I can spare you a piece of fried bread too if you like,’ said Carter, observant even at this time of the morning.

  Fred slid his backside further back into the chair. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

  The news of yet more vandalism spread through the village like wildfire. Nobody could believe that Fred had trampled Mrs Crow’s garden and vice versa. After all, Fred’s knees had been shot for years. Getting as far as the post office was an ordeal and everyone knew he might take all day to plant a row of potatoes or a line of runner beans. Lurking around at night just didn’t sit well with a man with dodgy legs and breathing issues.

  In the absence of clues or local suspects, other possibilities were suggested. ‘Somebody from the base. They’re Yanks. Big and brash. Saw them in the pub the other night. Loud lot and full of themselves.’ But nobody could quite see why a bunch of American air-force personnel would want to trample the plants in peoples’ gardens. ‘A prank. They’d do it as a prank after too many drinks at the Bear and Ragged Staff.’

  Kids from the village were also put forward as possible suspects, though every parent in the village insisted their children were tucked up in bed all night. It was also pointed out that the air-raid siren had sounded, which meant that the children were accounted for, as was everyone else for that matter. Everyone had taken refuge in whatever they used as an air-raid shelter, be it Anderson shelters or a cellar if they had one, or the cellar of the village inn if they didn’t.

  PC Carter scratched at his head. ‘There has to be an explanation,’ he said to Fred, having called in on him following his initial investigations.

  ‘Somebody with a grudge against me,’ Fred replied.

  ‘And somebody with a grudge against Mrs Crow.’

  ‘Well, that shouldn’t be too difficult,’ Fred grumbled. ‘There’s more than one in this village who’d like to trample her into the ground, let alone her plants!’

  Unwilling to get further involved in a feud he knew for certain had lasted at least thirty years, he ambled off back to the station, popping into the Bear and Ragged Staff on the way
. Over half a mild, he confided to Cliff that, although it looked as though the old folk were spatting at each other, he couldn’t actually see them as out-and-out vandals.

  ‘It certainly isn’t Mrs Crow carrying out a reciprocal action. She’s just not up to the job. She said herself her legs aren’t what they were and everyone knows Fred suffers from arthritis, so although they might be competitors in the horticultural stakes, neither of them are physically fit.’

  ‘Then it has to be a stranger,’ said Cliff, his brawny arms resting on the bar top.

  Carter took a good draught of his beer, thinking it might help fill the gap where his second slice of fried bread should have been, the other having been offered to Fred. ‘A stranger would have to be hiding out somewhere. Nobody’s seen anyone lurking around, not even the gypsies. Nobody’s seen them around since harvest time.’ The village was used to the gypsies appearing at harvest time, as casual labour to help with the harvest, though there were less of them now since the arrival of the land girls.

  Cliff suggested, ‘Blokes wanting to avoid being called up?’

  Carter agreed that it was a possibility.

  After he’d gone, Cliff couldn’t help thinking that this kind of thing had happened before, but his memory wasn’t quite what it was so the details were vague. That’s the problem with memories, he thought to himself. Memories of things that happened so long ago tend to fly away like dandelion clocks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Bert Dando lingered in bed the morning after he’d trampled Fred’s garden. He finally awoke to the sound of heavy rain and wind, so heavy it rattled the glass in the windows. Rotten weather, he thought to himself, turning over and trying to get back to sleep. Sleep didn’t happen. He was feeling too pleased with himself. He’d set the two old people against each other, but he wasn’t done with this village yet. Next stop, he thought, rolling over on to his back.

  It had been a long time since he’d been enjoyed the company of a woman and he was beginning to feel it. He could wait until he got back to London of course, but he just couldn’t get Meg Malin out of his mind. He wanted to be in her company, just for an hour or so. But how to swing it?

  Somehow he had to get her alone and persuade her to do what he wanted. Night-time was the best time but so far he didn’t think she ventured out much at night. After all, there wasn’t much in the village to venture out for unless it was for a drink at the pub and she didn’t look the type. Did she take the dog for a walk at night? Somehow he didn’t think so. It was aggravating but he was a patient man. He’d get what he wanted in the end. It was just a case of waiting for the right moment.

  Getting Meg alone also meant arranging for the kid and dog to be absent. How exactly was he going to do that? Tall order, the lot of it. Be patient, my boy, just like you used to when you were out poaching.

  Something unplanned and surprising happened a few days later. Even from his lofty eyrie he could read every word of the poster pasted on the trunk of the old beech tree standing between his cottage and the other side of the village green: DANCE. VILLAGE HALL. He could see it all: the date, time and everything. A smile spread across his face. The opportunity had come and he would grab it with both hands. It was just a case of careful planning.

  He watched as people, mainly women, gathered around the poster chattering excitedly. He saw Alice there and Meg too. He saw Alice say something to the woman he fancied, saw Meg shake her head. Alice was wearing a persuasive look.

  ‘Well, I’ll be blowed! You’re a lucky man, Bert, me old son!’ They’d be going to the dance. Both of them.

  This would be his chance to get Meg to himself. The blackout would be in force. The village hall would get warm inside because of the blackout curtains and so many people milling around. Inevitably people would come out to take the air. All he had to do was wait for Meg to do just that. It wasn’t a definite that she would, but he was optimistic. As a widow, he didn’t expect there to be a man with her and anyway, there weren’t enough men in the village to go round. Yes, the night of the dance would be the best time to carry out his plan and he looked forward to it. He looked forward to it very much.

  Bert was correct in that Meg and Alice were discussing the village dance. Alice was being persuasive but Meg was reluctant.

  ‘Alice, I don’t know if I really want to go. Not yet. Not until …’

  ‘Meg,’ Alice said gently. ‘It’s tragic that Ray is gone, love, but you have to go on living. Haven’t you heard of that old saying? All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Grieving for ever shortens your life and you’ll end up with wrinkles. Wouldn’t want to be old and wrinkled before your time, would you? Come to that, I bet Ray wouldn’t want that either. Live again, Meg, or you’ll turn into a moaning Minnie and everyone will keep away from you.’

  Meg laughed. Although Alice was married with three kids, her husband away at sea, she refused to be downhearted and thought she deserved a good time. ‘My Stan wouldn’t want me to be miserable. I’ve got to keep me spirits up for when he gets back. Anyway, I don’t suppose he’s leading the life of a monk. Well?’

  Meg smiled and shook her head. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without your cheerfulness.’

  Alice’s round cheeks glistened like dewy apples. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’

  ‘What about Lily? I can hardly take her to a grown-up dance.’

  ‘Of course not! Our Annie’s in the family way and won’t be going. She’s promised to look after my three. One more ain’t going to make much difference.’

  Annie was Alice’s sister. It had come as something of a surprise when Meg found out that both Annie and Alice were married to their cousins. It seemed to happen in the village quite a lot and nobody seemed to take much notice of it. The village resembled a close-knit family and any excuse for a party was leapt on. But with all that had happened, Meg couldn’t help feeling that she shouldn’t be socialising until she knew for sure that Ray wasn’t ever coming back, though Alice was very persuasive.

  ‘I’m not sure … There’s the dog to think of.’

  When she’d first taken the dog in she tolerated him in the house, busily running the carpet sweeper over the worn rug once he was out of the way. At night she’d insisted he slept outside – until Lily reverted to one of her tantrums. Now he lay on the end of Lily’s bed, his head on the cardigan she’d made for Lily from one of Ray’s cast-offs.

  Alice wasn’t giving up easily. ‘Meg, I have to point out to you that dogs are supposed to be left to guard your house. You don’t have to guard them.’

  Meg nodded. ‘I’m just worried. You know how Lily used to be before he came along. I don’t want her backsliding.’

  ‘For one night?’ Alice looked incredulous. ‘It finishes round about ten so you can fetch her then. Lily and the dog will still spend the night together.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘Of course I am! Anyway,’ she added with a sly wink, ‘the Americans are coming. Have you seen them? I think of Clark Gable every time I see one.’

  ‘You mean they all look like Hollywood film stars?’

  ‘You bet they do! They can get a bit fresh if you’re not careful, but I think we’re adult enough to cope with that, don’t you?’

  Meg relaxed a little. ‘I suppose so. I expect there’ll be a few young girls there anyway.’

  Alice pulled a face. ‘You can say that again! No doubt a whole cartload of those trollops from Trowbridge will be there. Anything in trousers and there they are.’

  Old Fred, who was now in the habit of coming round to tidy the garden at Bluebell Cottage and look after the vegetables, laughed when Meg asked him if the girls from Trowbridge were really as fast as Alice made them out to be. ‘What you don’t know, you’re suspicious of – and jealous,’ he added, tapping the side of his nose. Meg wondered if Alice regretted marrying her cousin. She certainly must have been very young at the time. She now had three children and couldn’t be much more than twenty years o
f age.

  Autumn days of red and gold persisted long into October. The harvest was in and the wheat and cornfields were sharp with stubble, like golden spears sticking up from the earth. A white mist shrouded the morning sun but had lifted by the time Meg fetched Lily from school.

  Meg waved to Fred as she left the cottage. He was planting spring runner beans. Rudy was trotting along obediently at her side. Alice was at the school gates when she got there with her youngest, Reginald, in the pushchair. Little Reggie was about two years old. ‘My parting gift from Stan,’ Alice had told her happily when Meg had asked her how old he was. ‘Can wait for another one,’ she’d added.

  ‘Any news?’ Meg asked.

  ‘Funny you should ask. I had a letter this morning. Three weeks, he reckons.’ Alice hunched her shoulders in excitement. ‘Can’t wait. But I’m still going to the dance. He won’t be home until after that.’

  Meg swallowed the pang of jealousy that sat like a stone in her chest. ‘That’s lovely for you.’

  ‘Managing to feed that dog all right then?’

  Meg said that she was. ‘Cliff from the pub brings me bits of offal and the odd rabbit and pigeon when he’s been out shooting. PC Carter brings me rabbits. I cooked one for dinner and he brought round a bottle of wine …’

  ‘Did he now!’ Alice said teasingly.

  Meg felt her face getting hot. ‘He’s just being kind.’

  ‘He’s almost as good-looking as the Yanks, and don’t say you haven’t noticed.’

  ‘He’s just a friend!’

  ‘Of course he is. He’d say the same to you about the dog. Nobody’s going to break into your place, not if Rudy’s got anything to do with it!’

  Meg ruffled the soft fur between the dog’s ears. In response, Rudy half closed his eyes.

  ‘Seems as though he’s been with you for ever. Mark my words, he’s the loyal type. Knows who he likes and that’s it.’