by Jenny Holmes
Standing where everyone could see her, the warden rapped a spoon on the table to attract attention. ‘Listen, everybody. You all know by now that some POWs have gone missing from Beckwith Camp. What you might not know is that this was planned well ahead.’
An expectant murmur went around the room as everyone waited to hear more.
‘From what I gathered during my phone call to the camp just now, the remaining prisoners were in on it. They deny it, but the guard on duty says he was called to a different hut soon after midnight to sort out a scuffle over something and nothing. The men made a big fuss so it took him quite a few minutes to settle them. He thinks that’s when the escape must have happened, while his back was turned.’
Kathleen raised her hand to ask an obvious question. ‘Didn’t he suspect anything was amiss?’
Hilda shook her head. ‘According to the sergeant in charge, the guard put it down to Italians getting over-excited, the way they do. Anyway, it’s not our place to point the finger. Our job is to keep our eyes peeled for any sight of the missing prisoners.’
In her distraught state, Una was sure that the warden’s eyes had rested on her as she made her next pronouncement.
‘Each and every one of us has a duty to make sure that they don’t get far.’
‘That’s right,’ Jean agreed in a loud voice, fixing Una with a suspicious glare. ‘We can’t let them get away with it. If they do, every prisoner in the county will be bound to follow suit.’
There was a loud buzz of agreement before Hilda went on. ‘You must report any sighting immediately. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Mrs Craven.’ Answers came from every corner of the room and the news gave rise to a general air of animosity that seemed to be directed at Una.
Sitting next to Una, Brenda patted her hand. ‘Everything will be all right. We’ll have them all back in camp before you know it.’
Una pressed her lips together and nodded without believing it.
‘Even if it’s only gossip, you should pass on what you hear to me. Who knows, a rumour may turn out to be true.’ Hilda had got through her speech. She’d had to put aside all thoughts about Alfie to concentrate on the latest emergency, but as she left the dining room and retreated to her office, it struck her that the urgent search for POWs might also turn up clues as to her son’s whereabouts. She sat at her desk to contemplate the shame she would be bound to feel if Alfie were to be discovered. He would be arrested, tried for burglary and found guilty. What mother would want this for her son? Would she simply have to stand by and let it happen?
Hilda shuffled papers around her desk then went to stare out of the window, then to her desk again, where she tried to concentrate on the rota for the day. In the hall and out on the drive, girls’ voices were calling out goodbyes as they set off for work. There was washing up to be done, housework to get through, a phone call to be made to bring Edith Mostyn up to date with events.
This doesn’t feel right, she thought as she made her way to the kitchen, eager to immerse herself in everyday chores. She had no one she could talk to, no husband to lean on, not a single friend in the village who would offer her a scrap of sympathy about this. So she took her dilemma to the dirty pots piled high on the draining board and to the hot, soapy water in the sink. I gave a fine speech about everyone doing their duty, yet all the while I’m backing away from the notion of handing Alfie over to the police. I’m a hypocrite when all’s said and done.
Hours after Una had arrived at Peggy Russell’s farm with Joyce, she was still hollowed out with shock and trying to recover from the hostile looks that many of the girls at the hostel had cast in her direction. She went about her work like a zombie, unseeing and clumsy, slow to carry out the orders that Peggy shot at them from the moment they began.
‘The brambles in the ditch behind the house need cutting back, then after that I want you to put fresh straw down for the pigs.’ The frail-looking widow – all skin and bone, with thin grey hair and tough, leathery skin – fetched two sickles from an outhouse next to the pigsty and pushed them at Joyce and Una with an instruction not to turn their backs on the biggest of the two sows when they eventually entered the sty. ‘Ivy’s not so bad but Ruby doesn’t take to strangers,’ she warned.
Joyce thanked her then kept a wary eye on Ruby and her six piglets as she led Una round the back of the house, where they climbed a stile into a rough, tussocky field that had been left fallow for two successive summers. They found that the ditch running alongside the wall was badly overgrown with nettles and ferns as well as brambles – so much so that rainwater couldn’t run freely and instead stood in deep, muddy pools that overflowed into the field.
‘It’s a good job we’re wearing wellingtons.’ Joyce stepped gingerly through a muddy patch of ground before lowering herself into the ditch. ‘This job will take up most of the morning by the look of it.’
The dazed expression lingered on Una’s face as she stepped down into the ditch and, side by side, they slashed and cut. When she did finally speak, it took Joyce by surprise. ‘Why did he do it?’ she demanded.
‘Who – Angelo?’ Joyce had just added to the heap of thorny, tangled blackberry stems that they’d piled up in a corner of the field. It would be left to dry out before being set alight. Now she stood over Una, hands on hips.
‘Yes. Why did he make me promises he knew he wasn’t going to keep? Why not give me a clue?’
‘Perhaps he did but you didn’t pick it up.’ Joyce recalled Lorenzo’s evasiveness when she’d last encountered him at Home Farm. It had been out of character and she remembered now that all the Italians had behaved differently and she’d put it down at the time to them being homesick and fed up with prison-camp life, no more than that. ‘I was with Lorenzo all day recently and I didn’t suspect a thing. Try not to blame Angelo too much, though. Elsie spoke the truth: any self-respecting POW of any nationality would attempt to do what the Italians have just done.’
Una didn’t listen. ‘Angelo told me he missed me, that I was near his heart always.’ She remembered every word of their last meeting.
‘Did he say when he’d see you again?’
‘No. He told me he was feeling better, though.’
Painful as it was for Una, Joyce knew that she had to come to terms with what had happened. ‘Doesn’t that show you that the plan to escape had already been hatched and last Sunday was his way of saying goodbye?’
Una refused to believe it. ‘He promised to take me to Pisa. He carved a little wooden box with our initials. I wear his necklace.’
‘Then, who knows? Perhaps you’ll still see Italy after the war has ended.’ Seeing Peggy approaching the stile, Joyce offered a hand to haul Una out of the ditch. ‘Try to forget about it for now. Let’s go and see what the old girl wants.’
He gave me his gold crucifix. Una felt the mud suck at her boots as Joyce raised her up. It was the very last thing he did before he left for Scotland.
Like many of the farmers who employed Land Girls, Peggy was a hard taskmaster. She was unreasonable about how fast she wanted jobs done and was quick to criticize their methods and standards if they fell short of expectations. ‘In my day, we weren’t frightened of putting in a good day’s work’, and ‘You youngsters don’t know you’re born’, were constant refrains as she stood with arms folded, watching Joyce and Una pile up debris from the ditch then later muck out the pigsty before they laid fresh straw.
Una was nervous as she pushed the wheelbarrow into the pigs’ cramped pen. She kept a wary eye on Ruby, whose enormous bulk took up one whole side of the sty. The pink sow lay with legs stretched out, swollen teats angled for her piglets to suckle, following Una and Joyce’s every move with her red-rimmed eyes. Meanwhile, Ivy came snuffling up to Una for treats.
Avoiding the piglets that ran squealing between her legs, Una retreated to the far side of the barrow and had scarcely begun to help Joyce to lift soiled straw before Peggy poked her nose in.
‘It doesn’t ta
ke two to do that job. Why doesn’t one of you collect three fresh bales while the other one stays here and mucks out?’
‘Where do we get the new bales from?’ Joyce asked.
‘From the barn in the far field. There’s an empty barrow there to wheel them back.’
‘You go,’ Joyce said to Una. ‘I’ll carry on here.’
Glad to be away from the stinking pen and out from under Ruby’s baleful stare, Una climbed the stile into the field where they’d been working earlier. Her hand went up to touch Angelo’s cross, a gesture designed to convince herself of his enduring love. ‘He will come back,’ she murmured as she jumped down from the stile and hurried across the rough ground towards the isolated barn. ‘I have to carry on believing that, whatever happens.’
Angelo would return and all would be well. It didn’t matter how long he was away or where he’d got to, just as long as he was safe.
The barn door was ajar and three swallows flew out of one of the narrow windows as she approached. They swooped down to head height then suddenly curved upwards into a clear blue sky. Una stood for a moment to watch them soar then she entered the barn. Her eyes adjusted to the shadows and she made out a barrow propped against the far wall.
Up in the hayloft, Alfie crouched behind a tower of baled straw. Until the startled swallows had flown from the rafters, he’d been sleeping the day away, so had no warning of the girl’s approach. But now he could hear her moving about below then the sound of her foot on the bottom rung of the ladder leading up to the loft. He held his breath and waited.
Una climbed the ladder then seized the nearest bale of straw. It was heavy for her to shift, but she managed to drag it into position then tilt it and tip it over the edge on to the ground below. Peggy had instructed her to fetch three bales, so she turned to do the same again.
Alfie squatted down in the far corner. He didn’t move. With luck the girl wouldn’t venture this far. If she did, he was ready for her.
The second bale thudded down. Una watched it land then turned again. Dust had got up her nose so she sneezed then rubbed it to stop it itching. Another sneeze came and then a fit of small, quick ones that made her sit down on the nearest bale to catch her breath.
Not a step closer, young lady; not if you want to leave here in one piece. Alfie waited with bated breath.
‘Last one,’ Una grunted as she stood up and shifted the bale she’d been sitting on. She suspected that the dust in here was giving her hay fever so the sooner she was out and breathing fresh air again the better. The final bale landed on top of the first two and she quickly descended the ladder to pile all three on to the barrow and push it out of the barn.
‘Get a move on,’ Peggy shouted from the yard gate. ‘No need to take all day!’
‘Eight men can’t vanish into thin air.’ Neville echoed the opinion that the majority of villagers held about the POWs’ overnight break out. He was there to welcome Poppy and Brenda as they rode into the yard at Brigg Farm. ‘They’re bound to nab ’em and cart ’em back to camp, kicking and screaming.’
‘Una for one certainly hopes so.’ Brenda leaned her bike on the wall of the hay barn and prepared to follow Neville to the top field where Arnold White’s straw-baling machine was waiting for them. ‘But so far they’ve shown a clean pair of heels.’
‘Trust me – it won’t be long.’ As Neville chatted to Brenda, he glanced anxiously at Poppy. Then, as soon as they arrived in the field and Brenda joined Roland to learn how to operate the mechanical monster, he pulled her to one side. ‘What did you say about the money?’ he asked. ‘Did you tell anyone?’
Poppy squirmed under his gaze, doing her best to avoid commenting on his cuts and bruises. ‘I’m sorry, I had to. Joyce knew something was up and she winkled it out of me.’
He ran a hand through his hair and bit his bottom lip. ‘What exactly?’
‘That you had some money that didn’t belong to you and that Alfie was involved.’
Neville groaned. ‘Then what?’
‘Then Joyce had it out with Doreen and after that Alfie’s goose was cooked. Mrs Craven got to know and now the police—’
‘Every bleeding blighter!’ Neville groaned again.
Poppy could see only one way ahead. ‘You have to give the money back,’ she insisted. ‘Go to the station yourself, hand over the seventy-five pounds and tell them everything—’
‘Shut up!’ He cut her off vehemently. Making sure that his father and Brenda were still busy, he walked Poppy further away. ‘I can’t do that!’
‘Why not? If you don’t, those two men will force the truth out of you. Or else Alfie will be back. Either way, isn’t it far better to go to the police?’
‘I can’t, I can’t!’ The skin on his neck was a patchy red, his swollen features twisted in angry frustration. ‘You can say it till you’re blue in the face, it won’t make any difference.’
‘Neville, you’re not listening to me!’ Poppy balled her hands into fists and stamped her foot. ‘It’s time to own up. Give it all back.’
He squeezed his eyes shut then opened them again to rock back on his heels and stare up at the sky. ‘I can’t,’ he said in a suddenly flat voice. ‘I didn’t know which way to turn after you left here on Sunday so I shoved the whole lot on the back of the fire and held it down with the poker until every last note went up in smoke.’
The working day ended in stifling heat. There was no breath of wind blowing through the dale; only baking air and a low sun so bright that the girls had to pull down the brims of their hats and cycle slowly home, perspiring under its rays. Once at the hostel, they gathered in the shade at the back of the house to exchange the latest snippets about the escaped prisoners – still no sightings. It was developing into a big mystery, but surely someone would spot them in due course.
Joyce didn’t join in with the speculation. Instead, she took a letter addressed to her from the hall table and went straight upstairs to her room. She took off her hat and jacket then sat on the bed to compose herself before slicing the letter open with the blade of her pocket knife.
‘Dearest Joyce, I hope this letter finds you well,’ she read. Edgar’s words danced before her eyes so she started again. ‘Dearest Joyce, I hope this letter finds you well. I’m fine as I write it. Picture me on my top bunk, pen in hand and shining a torch on this paper while three chaps around me snore in their sleep. No dicing tonight – touch wood – only a quick trip over Normandy to drop supplies earlier in the day. So I’ve made myself a cosy nest of pillows and blankets and have all the time in the world to remind you how much I love you and am thinking of you.’
She paused to take a deep breath before reading on.
‘Somehow it doesn’t seem awkward to write this down; in fact, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. When I come home I want to shout it out from the top of St Michael’s steeple – “I, Edgar Clifford Kershaw, love you, Joyce Cutler!” Do you have a middle name, Joyce? If so, write and tell me what it is. I’d like it to be Rose because a rose smells sweet and feels velvety soft to the touch. Am I embarrassing you? Do you mind that I’ve gone soft in the head?
‘Remember, you have to make allowances and understand that now the door of the cage is open and this bird can fly free at last, there’ll be no stopping me. I’ll be tapping my beak at your window and tweeting and chirruping morning, noon and night. “I love my Joyce, tra-la!”’
She paused again, her whole body suffused with the power of Edgar’s passion; warm, soft, silly, intimate – sharing words that were for her eyes only, that she would keep secret and close to her heart.
‘My dearest Edgar,’ she replied before she went down to supper. She wrote in her quick, fluent hand on her best Basildon Bond writing paper. ‘My darling, picture me in turn sitting on my bed overlooking the woods at the back of Fieldhead. The room is quiet and the low sun is shining through the branches. Though you can’t be here with me, I have your letter in front of me, making me at this moment the hap
piest woman alive.’
Alfie knew from bitter experience how to play the waiting game. He’d learned it in prison, when he’d spent months plotting his revenge against Ron Jackson, the man who had pointed the finger at Alfie for a series of house burglaries that they’d planned and carried out together. Jackson had got off scot-free but in the end, after Alfie had served his time, he had got his own back in a skirmish involving knives in which Jackson had lost two fingers on his right hand. Sit tight, wait with steely determination and then act; that was Alfie’s motto. So, though a secret dawn visit to Fieldhead on the Tuesday morning to see if he could find out from Doreen the reason behind his enemies’ visit hadn’t produced the desired result, he’d simply made his way back to Peggy Russell’s barn to wait out the rest of the day. From there he would keep watch and pounce on Doreen on her return to the hostel then drag out of her the facts behind Nixon and Moyes’s visit. A close call with the Land Girl sent to fetch straw had been the only drama of the day; otherwise, he’d smoked his last two cigarettes to quell the hunger pains and tried to sleep through the heat of the day.
By five o’clock he was back on the alert, listening to the rough bark of Peggy’s dog at every approach and spying through the narrow slit until at last Doreen appeared, hatless and with her shirtsleeves rolled back, cycling alone towards the hostel.
Alfie’s luck was in. He went straight into action: down the ladder in a flash and taking a stealthy short cut across fields towards Fieldhead, reaching the gate into the walled garden at precisely the same time as Doreen wheeled her bike across the yard towards the stables. He jerked back out of sight then risked another surreptitious glance around the yard to check that there was no one else in sight. Satisfied, he ignored the ever-present pain in his ribs and walked swiftly up the garden path in time to see Doreen emerge from the stable, about to close the door behind her.
Doreen saw him out of the corner of her eye but had no time to react before he knocked her clean off her feet, back into the stable where she collided with the bike that she’d just propped against the entrance to a stall. He stood astride her and mocked her in his slow, calculating way. ‘Fancy that – three visitors for you in the space of twenty-four hours. Someone must be popular.’