by Jenny Holmes
Grace said nothing but gave her a meaningful stare before offering her a hand. She’d glimpsed a white ribbon peeping out from under Brenda’s Aertex collar. ‘What’s that you’re wearing around your neck?’ she asked. Brenda’s hand shot up to conceal the ribbon.
‘Come on, Bren; what have you got there?’ Having set her bike upright and checked it for damage, Joyce was as curious as Grace.
Brenda sighed before raising her ring into full view and dangling it from the ribbon. The sapphire and diamonds caught the light and sparkled beautifully. ‘Les gave me it yesterday, just before he left.’
‘Oh, I say – an engagement ring!’ Grace gasped.
‘Yes, top marks.’ Brenda laughed uneasily. ‘I wish I had a camera. Your two faces are a picture.’
‘Les wants you to marry him?’ Joyce said.
‘Don’t look so surprised. He asked me and I said yes. What else was a girl to do?’ Blushing furiously, Brenda tried to wrest her bike back but Joyce held on to it.
‘Yesterday, you say? You kept that close to your chest.’
‘No, I didn’t!’ The wrestle to gain control of the bike continued. ‘Not on purpose.’
‘So why not wear the ring on your finger and show it off?’
‘For drystone walling? Are you mad?’
‘That’s fair enough,’ Grace said quietly as she came between them. ‘Congratulations, Brenda. I’m over the moon for you. I mean it. And it’s a lovely ring.’
‘I said yes.’ Brenda repeated this as if she still couldn’t quite believe it. ‘Did I do the right thing?’
‘If you love Les; yes, of course you did.’
Do I? Do I love him, really and truly? The question squirmed away beneath the surface. ‘He caught me off guard.’
‘In any case, you’ve sent him off to Scotland a happy man.’ All these goodbyes, Joyce thought with a pang of sadness.
It was left to Brenda to make the comparisons. ‘Now we’re all in the same boat, aren’t we? Edgar and Les have already gone and Bill is about to leave too.’
‘Two weeks today,’ Grace confirmed. ‘His call-up papers arrived first thing this morning.’
They stood in thoughtful silence at the side of the road; three women in corduroy breeches, leggings and cotton shirts thinking about sad partings. They all put on a brave face that hid undercurrents of doubt and self-doubt. Would Grace’s pride in Bill’s brave decision to go to war overcome her fears? Would Joyce’s new, deep delight in Edgar’s love be stolen away by a cruel turn of events? And did Brenda believe in herself enough to keep her promises to Les? These were the questions they asked themselves as they stood on the grass verge at the bottom of the hill, looking ahead to an uncertain future.
The best places for Alfie to sleep were the isolated hill barns, used for storing hay and housing livestock during the long, cold winters. In summer they were rarely visited by the farmers, meaning that he could bed down and get a good night’s kip then be up at dawn and on the move again, scavenging food wherever he could. He drifted on like this from hour to hour and day to day without a long-term plan.
But as the pain in his ribs began to subside, he grew more decisive. At dusk on the Monday he risked a return to Winsill Edge for more fresh eggs and even crept into the Turnbulls’ kitchen when he caught sight of both Horace and his father at the far side of the farmyard, irritably rounding up their scatterbrained chickens and shooing them into the henhouse for the night. He stole half a loaf from the bread bin and was gone before he heard the two men returning to the house, grumbling and bickering over signs that a fox had been near. He chewed hungrily at the crust as he walked on. Then, finding that he was heading in the direction of Burnside, he decided to keep well out of sight by skirting around the back of the woods and following the river along the valley bottom until he came to one of the barns he favoured for night-time accommodation. A glance towards the road told him that he’d reached Peggy Russell’s farm about half a mile from Fieldhead. He gave a satisfied grunt; Peggy was a doddery old widow who lived alone and rarely ventured out after nightfall. True, she owned a vicious dog that strained at its chain and barked at any passing car or bike, but that was to Alfie’s advantage since it would alert him as well as its mistress to any unwanted visitor.
In fact, the dog set up a racket as Alfie stood in the barn doorway assessing the situation. He heard a car in the distance – possibly a visitor to the hostel, which lay at the end of the lane – so he stepped further into the shadows while it passed. It took its time, cruising along at low speed, driving Peggy’s dog into a frenzy as it drew near. Then it stopped and Alfie got the shock of his life.
Howard Moyes switched off the car engine then stepped out. He narrowly avoided the frantic dog then knocked on the farmhouse door. His tall, stooped figure and gleaming black car were unmistakable. Besides, no one else in the dale dressed in a navy-blue blazer and yellow cravat or wore his trilby at that cocky angle. A closer inspection showed Clive Nixon sitting in the passenger seat, idly tapping the dashboard and watching the conversation going on between Moyes and the old widow.
Alfie swore and retreated into the barn. He climbed the steps into the hayloft and found a narrow slit in the stonework that let air circulate. His breath came in short gasps as he peered through the spy hole and waited for the car to drive on towards Fieldhead.
‘Doreen, you’ve got two visitors.’ Una flew up the hostel stairs and caught sight of her in her petticoat going into the WC. ‘Jean answered the door to them and I overheard them asking for you.’
‘Are you sure?’ Doreen’s day had begun with a trek into town to visit the police station and confess her sins – it had meant two changes of bus then a grim half-hour being interrogated by a portly desk sergeant instead of the wet-behind-the-ears constable who’d come to Fieldhead to investigate on the Monday after the burglary had taken place. She’d ummed and ahhed and pretended to have forgotten about bumping into Alfie Craven that morning; she’d had a splitting headache so her memory had been hazy, etcetera. The sergeant had noted everything down without believing a word. Then he’d flipped his notebook shut, aimed a slow look of contempt that had travelled down her body from head to foot and sent her on her way. Now all she wanted to do was to keep out of everyone’s way and not answer any more questions.
‘I’m sure,’ Una insisted. ‘Why, aren’t you expecting anyone?’
Doreen frowned. ‘What do they look like?’
‘Two men in suits. No, on second thoughts, the tall one’s wearing a blazer. The smaller one has specs.’
Doreen’s heart thudded and lurched – one heavy beat then onwards in a skittering, rapid race. She only had a foggy idea of why Alfie’s so-called friends might seek her out, but she sensed danger ahead. ‘Tell them I’m not in,’ she said.
Too late. Jean followed Una up the stairs, talking in a loud voice. ‘Ah, there you are, Doreen!’ She stopped to shout back down the stairs to the visitors. ‘Your luck’s in. She has to make herself decent but she’ll be down in a minute.’
So there was no other option but to face the music unless she climbed down the drainpipe to escape. The madcap notion was gone in a flash and Doreen tried to control her nerves as she went to her room to put on her tight-fitting green dress and white shoes. After applying a slick of lipstick, down she went to bluff it out for the second time that day.
‘They’re waiting for you in the common room.’ Jean had stood eager guard at the bottom of the stairs. The two men looked like trouble to her so her curiosity was piqued.
Doreen swished by and entered the room in style. ‘Well, well, this is a nice surprise,’ she trilled as she closed the door behind her.
‘Hello, Doreen.’ Moyes’s easy manner didn’t override the look of harsh suspicion in his eyes. He’d taken off his hat and held it in front of him. ‘It’s nice to see you looking so well.’
‘Likewise, Howard, Clive.’ She knew precisely the weapons she had in a situation like this and she employed them
by standing between the men, shoulders back, chest thrust forward, one hand on her hip. ‘I’m sure this isn’t a passing visit so how can I help you?’
‘My, you have a good memory,’ Moyes said with an insincere smile.
‘Oh, I never forget a name, especially when it belongs to a man who drives a nice new car. I take it this has to do with a certain mutual acquaintance?’ Attack was the best form of defence, so Doreen looked expectantly from one to the other.
‘Oh yes, our Alfie!’ The girl had plenty of nerve; Moyes gave her that. ‘That’s exactly why we’re here. We’ve been looking all over the shop for Alfie Watkins but he seems to have vanished into thin air.’
‘And I’m the magician’s assistant, am I?’ She sounded a light ‘pah!’ with pouted lips and tossed her hair behind her shoulders. ‘You’re waiting for me to pull the rabbit out of the hat?’
Moyes enjoyed Doreen’s performance more than Nixon, who chewed at the skin at the side of his thumb and eyed her impatiently. ‘Not necessarily. But we think you might be able to remember when you two last met.’
She held his gaze. ‘Oh, not for weeks. In fact, probably not since he introduced us outside the Blacksmith’s Arms. Why do you want him? Does he owe you some money?’
‘Bingo!’ Moyes said with an intensification of the steely glint. ‘We’ve asked him “nicely”, of course, but so far no luck. Now we might have to be less polite.’
Doreen shrugged then walked to the window. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you. I would if I could but, like I say, I haven’t clapped eyes on him.’
‘That’s a pity.’ He stroked his clipped moustache as he came up behind her. ‘We came all the way out here, sure that you’d still be the first in the queue for any little luxury our friend might slip your way.’
‘No such luck, I’m afraid.’ The skin at the back of her neck prickled and she tried to edge away. But Nixon advanced too and between them they cornered her in the window bay. ‘By the way, he answers to the name of Craven in this neck of the woods.’
‘He does, does he?’ Nixon showed no surprise.
‘You will be a good girl and tell us the next time you see Mr “Watkins”, won’t you?’ The question from Moyes contained an unmistakable threat. ‘We’ll be waiting for your call.’
Nixon slipped a hand into his breast pocket and drew out a small piece of white paper that he thrust at Doreen. ‘This is our telephone number,’ he explained in a voice that was surprisingly light and lilting. ‘We’ll need the exact details so we can follow it up straight away.’
‘Please,’ Moyes added with mock politeness. ‘And pass the word around that this is the number to ring if Alfie Craven is spotted hereabouts.’
Doreen pushed the scrap of paper down her cleavage and managed a conspiratorial wink that was as false as Moyes’s “please”.
‘Good girl,’ he crooned, coming so close to her that she felt his breath on her face. ‘I can see why you’re Alfie’s favourite. He has taste if nothing else.’
How much longer can I keep this up? she wondered as every nerve ending strained against the man’s proximity. She took in his narrow, small face and the five o’clock shadow on his chin, a deep pock mark between his straight, dark brows.
He sneered then stepped back, eyes fixed on her face. ‘But do you find that your looks sometimes attract the wrong type? I would say they might, wouldn’t you, Clive?’
Nixon was bored by Moyes’s games. The woman had been unable or unwilling to tell them anything useful and he was left feeling frustrated and impatient to continue the search. ‘Do as we say,’ he warned her as he snatched the car keys from Moyes then strode towards the door. ‘Be sure to keep your eyes and ears open for us, especially if you fancy your chances in a beauty contest in the near future, if you catch my drift.’
At six o’clock next morning, Joyce was on her way to the bathroom when she heard the faint sound of the telephone ringing in the warden’s office. She leaned over the banister to see if anyone was available to answer it, wondering who on earth could be calling at this hour. No one else was awake, it seemed, so she raced downstairs to take the call.
She picked up the receiver. ‘Hello, this is Fieldhead Hostel. Who’s calling, please?’
‘Hello, this is the operator at the Northgate exchange. I have a call for you from a Squadron Leader Aldridge, in charge of the Royal Canadian Air Force base on Penny Lane. Will you take it?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Joyce’s thoughts raced through various possibilities, each one more far fetched than the last.
‘Hold the line, please. I’ll put you through.’
There were several clicks on the line then Jim Aldridge’s voice came through. ‘Apologies for the early call,’ he began. ‘But this is an emergency. Who am I speaking to, please?’
‘This is Joyce Cutler. Would you like me to find the warden for you?’
‘No, it’ll be quicker if you can pass on a message for me. I have a dozen other calls to make. Do you have pen and paper?’
Joyce reached across the desk. ‘Yes. Fire away.’
‘OK, write it down exactly as I tell you. There’s been a break-out from Beckwith Camp. Eight prisoners have escaped.’
‘Eight.’ She steadied her hand and wrote down the number.
‘All from the same hut. It happened overnight. When the guard carried out his early morning patrol, he found that eight of the beds hadn’t been slept in.’
‘Did anyone see what happened?’
‘If they did, they’re not saying. I got a call fifteen minutes ago from the sergeant in charge. We think they escaped on foot so they can’t have got far. That’s why we’re both manning the telephone right now, putting calls out to everyone in the neighbourhood.’
Joyce scribbled as fast as she could with a dawning realization of the repercussions. ‘Do you have a list of names? Should I write them down?’
‘Names and numbers,’ he confirmed. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes, ready.’
‘OK. Ricci, number 4701; Bianchi, 3276; Marino, 4396; Bachetti, 3840 …’ She went on writing but her mind was fixed on ‘Marino’ and ‘Bachetti’. Lorenzo Marino, prisoner number 4396; Angelo Bachetti, prisoner number 3840.
Aldridge brought the list to a rapid conclusion. ‘You got that? Good. Tell everyone to report any possible sighting immediately. This is going to cause one hell of a stink, so the sooner we recapture every last prisoner the better.’
‘Got that,’ Joyce said hurriedly. ‘Thank you, Squadron Leader. I’ll do as you say.’
There was a click and the line went dead.
Joyce replaced the receiver. For a few moments she didn’t move.
Hilda had made her way from the kitchen at the sound of the phone. She burst into the office then clutched at the bib of her apron when she saw Joyce’s shocked expression. ‘Alfie? Have the police arrested him?’
‘No, it wasn’t that.’
‘What then?’
‘The POWs. Eight have gone AWOL.’ Joyce pushed the list across the desk. ‘Angelo is one of them. I’d better go straight up and tell Una.’
She took a deep breath and crossed the hallway. Her feet dragged as she mounted the stairs, walked along the landing then knocked on the door of Una’s room. She walked in without waiting for an answer. Brenda and Kathleen were still asleep, Una was sitting up in bed, looking at her with a bleary frown.
‘What is it, Joyce?’ She sat bolt upright and waited for the axe to fall. ‘It’s something very bad. I can see it in your face.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
There was scarcely any time for Una to recover from the shock. The morning routine demanded that she get dressed and go down to breakfast before her whirling thoughts and feelings had settled, so she found herself sitting at the long table, staring down at her bowl of uneaten porridge and surrounded by fellow Land Girls whose sole topic of conversation was the dramatic overnight happening at Beckwith Camp.
‘It takes some nerve to go on the run like
that,’ Kathleen said to Elsie and Brenda. ‘To give up a comfortable billet where they know they’re going to be fed and watered and make a bid for freedom.’
‘Yes, it’s risky,’ Elsie agreed. ‘But that’s exactly what I’d do in their position – try to escape and get back to my own country where I could rejoin the fight. So I can’t say I’m surprised.’
Though concerned for Una, Brenda couldn’t resist joining in. ‘That’s right. I watched a story on Pathé News recently about our brave boys tunnelling their way out of camps in Germany and Poland. That makes getting out of Beckwith a piece of cake by comparison.’
‘Our chaps end up as heroes.’ Like most patriotic citizens, Kathleen felt pride in such achievements. ‘They go through hell and high water to get back into Allied territory and rejoin the fight.’
Una heard but didn’t take it in. Everything was a jumble. All she could hold in her mind was that Angelo had left without saying goodbye.
Joyce leaned across the table and spoke softly to her. ‘Eat your porridge. You need something to line your stomach to help you through the day.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Try to eat anyway.’ Fortunately Joyce would be able to keep an eye on Una as they worked at Peggy Russell’s together. The farm was close enough to the hostel to bring her back at lunchtime for soup and a sandwich if necessary. She must let Hilda know that she might do that.
‘You’re sure Angelo’s name was on the list?’ Una clutched like a drowning man to a last straw of hope.
‘Absolutely certain. Lorenzo’s too, if that’s any comfort.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Lorenzo has always looked out for Angelo. We can rely on him to carry on doing that.’
‘I thought …’ Angelo hasn’t been well. He’s been missing from work. I saw him on Sunday; he never said a word. He told me he was better. He made promises. I gave him the card I made especially for him … ‘Oh, I don’t know what I thought!’
‘Hush!’ Jean gave Joyce a nudge and all heads turned towards Hilda as she entered the room.