She sat for a minute. The chickens were still mithering away and the birds were still hard at it. That was something people never told you. The countryside wasn’t quiet at all. There was never a moment when something wasn’t squawking or chirping, or the trees were hushing each other or the bees were humming away. She’d had no idea that things made so much noise, just things that were part and parcel of the world, not machines, not people. They’d given her the willies those first few weeks, these night-time noises, but after a week of dawn loo runs she was getting used to them.
Connie stepped out of the privy and stood there for a minute, one hand in the small of her back, arching into the streaky dawn. The baby shifted too – was she stretching as well? Connie put her other hand on her belly so that the baby knew she was there. The sun was right up now. Not much warmth in it yet, but it had cast a shadow image of the cottage down as far as the apple trees. Seemed hard to fathom that those little white flowers were going to become apples, but that’s what Joyce insisted, and there was no arguing with her.
Connie stretched again, in no hurry to go inside. She wasn’t getting back to sleep now; the baby’s energy had got into her bones and she was itching for the day to start. She’d sit on the bench underneath the kitchen window for a bit, take a load off. It must be coming on for quarter past five by now and she’d arranged to meet Seppe for felling practice at half past six. He was coming on all right, Seppe. Not much of a talker, and he looked like he wanted to run a mile if she got behind him to show him a move. But he was copping on. Yesterday he’d told her off when she’d started to explain about the wedge; had produced one from his trouser pocket of his as if he were a magician rather than an Eyetie Prisoner of War and placed it in such the right place that it ended up being the quickest tree they got down.
Seppe’s face!
She found the memory of it warmed her insides like the sun gleaming down through the orchard now. That made two things she was good at; she could get the trees down, and she could teach how to do it. Not long and they’d be able to stop with these early mornings. Though to be honest, since this little one was waking her up anyway, it wasn’t such a hardship.
The bench was digging into her bum, which was surprising given just how big it had got recently. She shifted around a bit, looked down the garden to where the old stone wall had gone from night-grey to dawn-amber with the light. Look at her! Sitting on a bench at daybreak, a baby almost ready to pop and responsible for teaching a prisoner a secret. She was having an adventure in spite of it all. She just didn’t know what kind of adventure it would turn out to be.
Sixteen
AMOS WHISTLED FOR BESS, who’d been lapping at the brook. Time to get back home, have a bit of bread and cheese, maybe look at his Billy’s latest letter again. That was something all right, news from the lad, a lick of happiness at least.
Amos had tried a few times now to sit down and reply, but the words soured between his head and his pen. Give it time, his May would have said. It had tilted things, Billy being away had, like leaning against a branch and finding it couldn’t bear your weight. But now there was a new letter, and summer was here. Good news might be round the corner.
Amos pushed on up the ridge where there was a decent breeze. It hadn’t taken long to find the sheep today; they’d trampled the cow parsley right down on their way through to the shade of the oaks. The new lambs were sizing up well, soon be time to have them dealt with. Amos sighed. Lord knows why they’d had to go and make it all so darned complicated these last few years, all them forms to fill in and prove that you weren’t hanging on to the meat yourself, even though that was how it had worked for years, how it always worked. War or no war, people needed feeding. He’d see if Joyce would give him a hand with them bits of paper again this year.
Not long after the peak the wind blew up a noise that seemed all out of place. What was down there? He stopped and caught his breath, considering. If you went straight through from here, you’d be at old growth. That was the stand of oaks Frank reckoned they’d lose next time those know-it-all Ministry men came from London, them with their clipboards and their grabby need for wood. Bit odd that anybody’d be out that way on a Sunday. May as well go and have a look. The house rattled with Billy’s absence, and that lumberjill – Connie, it was – could be pricklier than the gorse.
It was easy enough to follow the noise down the valley ridge; halfway down, it came into focus. Felling – that’s what it was, and on a Sunday morning? Wasn’t like Frank to work people seven days a week, not unless there was a big push on that he couldn’t ignore.
It was the saw Amos could hear, not the axe, and it was out of kilter. A blade went through timber like a drumbeat: one-two, one-two. Whoever was at the saw right now was making it hop, missing on the downbeat. Like a thrush singing backwards, it was; this racket might sound fine if you didn’t know better, but when you did, it grated. No real forester would make a hash of it like this, he knew that for sure. This was the trouble with these incomers. Ten minutes’ training and they were swanning round the forest like they owned it, cutting down English oak that had stood there for hundreds of years. Like ivy on a trunk, swarming all over and changing the shape of things. But Frank did say it was for war work, for masts and the like. If it might keep his Billy safe in some way, it stood to reason that the forest would have to be involved too. Amos didn’t rightly know what to make of the whole sorry mess.
‘Well, I’ll be blessed.’
It was Connie, fretting the saw like it owed her something. But who the dickens was that on the other end of it? Not a forester, he could tell you that for nothing. Nobody born to the job would hold the saw like that, as if it might bite him. Long way from Sunday best, his uniform was, and patchworked with great black patches. Not like his Billy, all spick and span, creases pressed into his uniform by Amos the night before he left. However much he hadn’t wanted Billy to go, he’d sent the boy off smart.
Amos looked again at the fellow with the saw and shook his head. Had to be one of those Italian prisoners from that camp over at Wynols Hill. Look at the state of him. How long had they been there now – since last thaw? And yet this one opposite Connie was still all skin and bones, even from this distance. He had eyes as dark as midnight and sunken cheeks that’d worry Amos on a winter ewe, never mind a grown man. Looked nearly as done for as those schoolkids they’d sent here from Birmingham earlier in the war, before Billy was called away. They’d all scarpered back off home, said they couldn’t stand the quiet and they’d take their chances with the bombing. Now the schools were full with evacuees down from London, so Joyce had told him, filling the local kids’ heads full of nonsense about burned-out Jerry planes and spending whole nights underground on railway station platforms. The sooner they all went back home, the better.
Amos looked back over at the lumberjill. Fair play to her, she was pulling smoothly enough. In fact, if it weren’t for her they’d be all over the shop. She didn’t keep her trap shut even when sawing, mind. Couldn’t be too much of an earful, though; the Italian laughed, shoulders shaking, his features more open even from this distance.
Amos wasn’t interested in words. He’d watch the two of them for a bit longer, though – make sure they weren’t ruining that old oak. He pulled the peak of his cap down tightly on his forehead. Connie looked dead set on getting it down. Her chin jutted as she stabbed across at the Eyetie, getting him to move over a bit, change his grip. Even from this distance there was something a bit off about the way she stood, even if her grip was all right. Never mind worrying about anyone else’s. But the Italian trusted her, you could tell by the way he leaned in, listened to her with a soft smile curling his lips even from this distance. They had that easy partnership you couldn’t learn, that either came or didn’t and was vital for the sort of work Frank’s men did do.
The girl stopped talking, clapped him on the shoulder and he nodded, leaned into the saw as if it was his sweetheart, and the rhythm sorted itself out st
raightaway. The one-two was so crisp now that Amos started tapping his hand on his crook along with it.
Amos wouldn’t believe it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, but they’d got that oak down. Next time he saw Frank, he’d tell him. The wench weren’t so useless after all, it turned out.
Connie squeaked open the door to the house and tiptoed in. A shadow lurched forward and she clutched at the wall. ‘You scared me half to death there!’
‘Come here a minute.’ Amos beckoned her down the hallway. She’d been out at the site with Seppe all of today, in the end, and she was desperate for a kip. Getting trees down wore her out more than anything she’d ever done at the factory; all her muscles ached at once. But it was the old bloke’s house, and she couldn’t risk being chucked out, not now, so she threw her shoulders back and followed him down to the kitchen.
Amos pulled out a chair for her and she sat down, uneasy. This wasn’t like Amos; it seemed like he was up to something. Perhaps he was going to throw her out. Her gut twisted again.
‘Thought you might be hungry.’ On the table in front of them was what looked like half a chicken in some kind of gravy. Her gut stopped twisting and her mouth watered.
‘What’s this about?’ She grabbed the fork in case he changed his mind.
Amos pulled out the chair beside hers and sat down at his own empty place. He didn’t look at her ‘Came from Joyce. She wants to make sure we’re not starving whilst she’s still teaching you to cook.’
Connie looked at him sideways then back down at her plate. The food was good, but that made sense now. She’d been over to Joyce’s three times now, each time learning a different dish but mostly just enjoying the company of the older woman, who asked no questions and simply got on with kneading dough.
She bit into a carrot so orange it looked like a warning sign. It was sweeter than she knew carrots could be and she shovelled it in.
‘Good grub.’
‘Aye, Joyce is a dab hand in the kitchen. Smart with her book learning, too – she keeps all of Frank’s papers in order. Don’t know how he’d cope without her. Got a tongue on her, though.’ Amos smiled and it was so unexpected that Connie coughed down a lump of carrot.
‘Settling in all right, are you?’
Connie raised her head and looked at Amos. The most he’d ever said before was ‘Ta’ when she’d passed him the salt. ‘I – yeah, I suppose so.’
‘Not like your big cities, we aren’t, not like Gloucester; but you can keep yourself entertained all right out here. My Billy was always out and about with his pals.’
Where did they go? Connie wouldn’t mind knowing what the locals did for fun, especially after making a show of herself at that last lumberjill dance. But Amos had tailed off, was staring down at the empty plate.
Connie had been about to ask if she could put the wireless on and see what was out there in the world, but the beginning of that sentence had stopped her in her tracks. Thoughts of her get-out plan, pushed to the back of her mind recently, reappeared urgently. Whatever had caused Amos’s unexpected friendliness might vanish as quickly as it came. She’d better get the information she needed whilst she could.
‘How far is it to the train station?’ This forest was so vast, she had no idea how to ever find the place she’d arrived at.
‘Nearest one is Cinderford, ’bout six mile away. Best thing to do from here would be to head up towards Soudley, pick the road up there. You could cut across Staple’s Edge but it’s a bit of a climb, mind.’ She could taste his question: why? But he couldn’t know why. Nobody else could get involved.
‘Trains don’t run that often though, not these days.’ Amos picked up her empty plate and went over to the sink. She followed him, her own question pulling her.
‘But what happens if you need to go somewhere?’
‘Where would we need to go?’
There was no answer to that, so Connie stood and watched Amos scrape the gravy off his plate. She shouldn’t have wolfed down that dinner.
She yawned. ‘I’m off up now. Thanks again for that.’
Amos nodded, concentrating on the plate, and something in her twinged. The talk of trains not running had scared her, though. First chance she had, she needed to go and check she could still get away.
Seventeen
SEPPE PULSED HIS HANDS, shaking out the aches of the axe into the warm afternoon air. He’d conquered it. Today he had felt the rhythm that Connie was always insisting was there to obey. The raw soreness of his hands was forgotten and the oak had fallen cleanly and in half the time. Connie had beamed and for once hadn’t said anything. Now that Frank couldn’t banish them from timberwork for incompetence, they were safe; it was too monumental even for Connie’s words.
He paused at the fork in the path that took him back up to Campo 61 and the parade ground. Nobody would miss him for a few more hours, not on a Sunday. Seppe looked around – but of course there were no sentries, no workers, just the high grasses amidst the trees rustling with the busyness of summer. You’d never know there was a war still raging on in countries miles from here. It unsettled Seppe. The guards were proud of their forest, seemed more than happy to let the POWs wander as long as they were back by curfew, with the exception of the small band of ‘sympathisers’ still deemed likely to try and spread fascist propaganda. Seppe had quietly welcomed this uncharacteristic strictness, especially when it led to all the sympathisers being moved to one ‘higher security’ barrack. He’d reclaimed his bunk from Fredo and was now back beside Gianni and far from the night soil.
He passed a stand of spruce, ringed with white chalk where the Pole Cats had marked it for a telegraph pole. Connie had explained these Pole Cats to him the first time he’d spotted the chalk. Apparently they were specially trained to select the straightest, tallest trunks to be used as the poles that gave them their nickname. Pole Cats went out ahead of the felling teams, roaming forests all over the country, and daubed the coppices with different colours to show the axemen what to cut down for each quota. Every time Seppe saw a chalk ring he marvelled at the skill of these unseen women, the confidence they must possess to look at a tree and decide its fate: this one a telegraph pole, that one a ship’s mast, those over there to be pit props.
And now he was a tiny part of this same system, had the beginnings of an understanding of forest husbandry and could be of use. Something in Seppe lifted and he followed the second path, the ubiquitous beech and oaks thinning as it steepened. The path hitched over a hump and gave way to a platform of flat, white stones which dropped sharply into the river-ribboned valley far below. The trees below were all but indiscernible from each other from this distance, the forest on either side of the brown waters a viridescent blanket hugging the contours of the hills.
Seppe settled himself on the biggest of the rocks. It was smooth and warm against his skin and he closed his eyes, his breath slow and calm. Peregrine falcons, their beaks sharp flashes of yellow in the vastness of the vista, soared on the currents, dipping out of sight behind the cliff edge before reappearing, effortless.
There was a tickle at his neck. He turned and pinched off the offending grass poking from a crevice in the rock. He pursed his lips and brought the grass to it. He blew and the grass vibrated between his lips, high and sharp like the calls of the birds of prey. The corners of his mouth crinkled. The tune eked out, flew over the cliff with the birds. Seppe closed his eyes again, gave in to the music and the warmth and the peace. He finished the melody, began another, his toes tapping now on the rock. Falcons swooped through the sky as the sun moved round and the warmth leached from the stone, but he played on. Nobody was pursuing him. Nobody was making demands of him. He had secured his job. All was well.
Eighteen
July
‘OH, FOR THE LOVE of God!’
It had been a month since Amos had mentioned the train station and until today she’d been too whacked every night to face that walk. She’d only popped home to change her socks befor
e heading up to Cinderford, and what was this on the doorstep? A parcel wrapped in newspaper. It reeked of fresh death, just like all the others had.
Eating dead things straight from the hedge seemed to be a countryside special, and she’d never cop on. In her world, meat came from the butcher if it came at all. Still, if Mam were here now she’d probably give her a clip round the ear for being such a spoilt brat in the face of all this grub.
Connie swallowed hard, banishing the memory, and bent down for the parcel. If she got this over with, she’d still have time to get to the station. Frank hadn’t sussed how close Seppe had been to not hacking the job, so he was pleased with their work rate and seemed to keep doubling the amount they had to do. It was great for overtime, meant she was able to put away a little bit extra every week so that she could leave a few bits for the baby, make it less of a burden for whoever took the babba in. But time was moving on and she was feeling the baby move around more and more, reminding her it was coming. This was supposed to be one of the exciting parts, she knew that much. But the strain of keeping the bump obscured from view all day and the nervousness of what, exactly, she was going to do after the birth just gave Connie the heebie-jeebies.
She couldn’t have the baby actually in the woods; she’d need to push it out when Amos was off wandering the forest with Bess, looking for his sheep. When Mam had had Barbara and Linda, both times the noise she’d made could have been heard in London, never mind the rest of their street. Seemed to go on for ever and a day, too – but Connie couldn’t think about that or she’d lose her nerve and it wasn’t like she could do anything but get on with it, was it?
She heaved a sigh and picked up the parcel with the tips of her fingers, pushing open the back door with her knee. May as well make the most of things and put the dinner on before she went out to check the trains. She dumped the package on the kitchen table and peeled away the sheets of Mercury. The inner layers were soaked through with cold, sour-smelling blood; it had glooped together in the sharp pockets of the parcel as if relieved to find a place to rest.
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