by Jenny Holmes
Something had disturbed the ducks, but what? Perhaps the sound of her bicycle wheels rattling over the rocky path, though she wasn’t aware of having made much noise. Something else, then? She glanced over the waist-high parapet and saw a man crouched on his haunches, leaning forward to dip his hands into the water.
‘Edgar?’
He was startled but he didn’t look round. Instead, he stood up and stumbled along the bank, one foot slipping and splashing into the stream. He overbalanced and crashed headlong onto the rocks. The sound of his fall set Henry’s dogs barking.
Joyce abandoned her bike and ran to help. ‘Here, take hold of my hand. The rocks are slippery. That’s right, easy does it.’
Instead of righting himself, Edgar pulled free and fell a second time. The hem of his overcoat dragged in the water so he shrugged it off and left it behind as he crawled away.
‘Wait,’ Joyce implored. She knew she couldn’t let this desperate man run off into the night but she needed help to stop him. Luckily the dogs’ barking had brought old Henry to his front door so she shouted for him to come quick.
By now Edgar was back on his feet and scrambling up the muddy bank, still intent on getting away.
Taking in the scene without recognizing the fugitive, the farmer cut him off and forced him to turn back the way he’d come. ‘Now then, my lad – I’ll let the dogs loose if you go on like this,’ he warned.
Edgar stopped dead about ten paces from where Joyce stood. The urge to flee vanished as suddenly as it had come and he dropped to his knees. Everything was dark, he had no strength, no will to go on – only a hollow in the very centre of his being.
Henry kept a wary distance while Joyce stepped towards Edgar. She took off her coat and wrapped it around his shoulders. ‘Come with me,’ she murmured. ‘That’s right, I’ll look after you. Come with me.’
Henry Rowson had no telephone and he didn’t drive a car. He lived as his forefathers had lived, without electricity, getting about by bicycle or by thumbing a lift into Burnside with his nearest neighbour, three miles down the road.
‘Tell him he can stay there in the barn for the night if he likes,’ he said to Joyce. ‘He can’t sleep in the house with me – there’s only the one bedroom.’
‘I’ll stay there with him then,’ she decided. ‘You’ve seen the state he’s in. It wouldn’t be right to leave him by himself.’
‘Whatever you think’s best.’ Henry had done his bit and was ready to close his door. ‘As long as you don’t mind tongues wagging.’
‘I don’t care about that.’ What she did care about was getting word back to Fieldhead to tell them why she’d been held up but even this she would have to give up on, she decided. ‘I’d better go and make sure he hasn’t run off again.’
She carried the heel of a loaf and small wedge of cheese that Henry had been able to spare back to the barn and found Edgar exactly where she’d left him: in the corner of an empty stall, hugging his knees to his chest and staring straight ahead. He didn’t react as she crouched beside him. ‘I’ve brought you something to eat,’ she said quietly.
His eyes flickered shut then open again.
‘Bread and cheese, if you’re hungry. And Mr Rowson is happy for you to bed down here.’ As her eyes grew used to the dark interior, she could make out pitchforks and spades stacked against a wall and a hayloft over their heads with a ladder leading up. She climbed it and brought down an armful of dry straw – the beginnings of a bed for Edgar to stretch out on. ‘In case you want to sleep,’ she explained.
She might as well have been talking to an empty shell, a husk of a man instead of the man himself.
‘You don’t have to,’ she went on cautiously, as if the breath from her words might blow the husk away. ‘Sleep might be the last thing you want to do. That’s how I was at the start of this year, after my fiancé’s ship sank. I didn’t want to fall asleep in case I had nightmares.’
Edgar turned his head away and then back again. He unclasped his hands.
‘I’m not saying it’s the same thing as what you’re going through. It wasn’t me in that water when the ship went down, it was Walter.’ Surrounded by drowning sailors and their cries, lungs filling with water, hands reaching upwards towards the moon and stars.
He felt the thud-thud-thud of enemy fire as it raked through the Lancaster’s cockpit, heard the engines cut out, saw Billy slump forward.
‘Walter couldn’t swim. It’s a strange thing – a lot of sailors don’t bother to learn.’ A direct hit in the thick of night. Oily black water, the suck and pull as she sank.
The silent spiral downwards, blood seeping through Billy’s shrapnel-torn jacket, the motionless propellers. Their plane had hit the tree canopy and come to an uneasy rest supported by branches, twenty feet above the ground. Edgar took a shuddering breath then spoke. ‘Why?’
She rested her hand on his arm and waited.
‘Why Billy and not me?’
Why Walter? Why anyone?
The inside of the barn was pitch black. Memories drifted upwards and were caught in cobwebs. Silence comforted them even though sleep refused to come.
At dawn, Brenda rode out on her motor bike to find out what had happened to Joyce. She went back to the village and informed Edith Mostyn, who sent Bill out in the car to bring Edgar home.
‘Again, please!’ Kathleen clapped her hands to draw everyone’s attention. She looked stylish and up to date in her navy-blue slacks and cream sweater, with not a blonde hair out of place. ‘Jean and Elsie, put down your magazines. We have to go through the whole routine one more time.’
‘Slave driver,’ Jean grumbled. She regretted sacrificing the whole of her Saturday afternoon to attend a rehearsal less than two weeks before Christmas. ‘I wish I’d never agreed to do this in the first place.’
Elsie pulled her to her feet then dragged her towards the low stage at the far end of the Institute hall. ‘Stop moaning, for once in your life.’
Joyce called out to Kathleen from behind the piano. It was their first time in the actual venue and the acoustics were far from perfect. ‘Do you want it from the very top?’
‘Yes, please.’ Kathleen was in her element and enjoying every moment. ‘Una, I want you to be Elsie’s partner from now on – you’re around the same height. Brenda, come further forward and centre stage for your solo spot. Jean, you’re an inch taller than Ivy. Switch places with her and take the man’s part. You’ll have to alter your hold.’ She went up onto the stage to demonstrate. ‘There, that’s better. The rest of you are fine as you are.’
There was a buzz of chatter and a jockeying for position as Joyce prepared to play again.
‘Remember, nice and smooth. Pretend you’re gliding over the ice.’ Kathleen issued her final instructions. ‘One-two-three, one-two-three, slide your leading foot along the boards with no rise and fall. This isn’t called The Skaters’ Waltz for nothing.’
‘Blimey, Kathleen has turned into Busby Berkeley all of a sudden,’ Brenda joked with the girl nearest to her. ‘Next we’ll be wearing ostrich feathers and fishnet tights.’
‘Yes, you’d better get your solo right, or else,’ came the reply.
There were eighteen dancers on the small stage, with hardly enough room to swing a cat, as Jean grumbled from her place on the back row. ‘And it’s freezing in here,’ she complained. ‘Has anyone besides me felt the radiator pipes? They’re stone cold.’
‘Hush! Is everybody ready? Play us in please, Joyce.’
Piano notes tinkled and the Land Girls glided in pairs, weaving in and out, one-two-three, turning and twirling in time to the music. Dust rose from the rough boards beneath their feet. There was a small mistake here, a faltering step there.
‘Still not right,’ Kathleen said with a frown when the music stopped. ‘Brenda, raise your leg higher in the arabesque and try not to wobble. Elsie, don’t use so much force to swing Una around. And smile, please – everybody smile!’
‘Is it t
ime to call a halt?’ Joyce asked from her piano stool. There were some disgruntled faces up there and she could understand why. Who would have thought that Kathleen would turn into such a martinet? ‘It’s half past four already.’
‘All right,’ Kathleen agreed. ‘I’ll ask the caretaker if he can open the hall for us again tomorrow afternoon. What time would suit everyone?’
Two o’clock was agreed upon and the girls began to disperse.
Grace came down from the stage to speak with Joyce. ‘I haven’t said a proper thank-you for last Wednesday,’ she began hesitantly.
‘There’s no need.’
‘Yes,’ she insisted, ‘there is. When Edgar takes it into his head to wander off, he seems to forget the time of day and where he is. If he stays out all night at this time of year, he’ll freeze to death.’
Joyce stopped tidying her sheets of music and looked up at her. ‘It was pure luck that made me cycle back to the farm. And after I stumbled across him, it was clear he couldn’t be left.’
‘It must have been a long, cold night for you too.’ Since Edgar’s return two days earlier Grace and her father had been treading on eggshells, praying that he didn’t go off again. ‘Why do you think he does it?’ she asked Joyce. ‘What drives him away from us?’
Joyce smoothed the pages flat. ‘We didn’t talk much but he did mention the name Billy.’
‘Who’s Billy?’
‘He was the pilot in his plane when they were shot down. He asked why Billy died and not him. To my mind, guilt is what bothers him.’
Grace gave a small nod. ‘For still being alive.’ Oh, Edgar! Her heart was pressed tight by the thought of him walking and walking into the wilderness. Always in vain, because he would never leave behind the crushing sense that he’d cheated death while his comrade had been taken.
She was jolted back into the present by a request from Brenda. ‘Joyce, do you mind handing over a copy of the words and music for “Over the Rainbow”? I’d like to stay behind for half an hour and practise.’
Joyce did as she asked and Grace waited for her while she found the sheet and handed it over. Then they walked out together behind Kathleen and Una. It was already dark and the lights of the Blacksmith’s Arms beckoned.
Elsie had crossed the road ahead of the others. ‘There’s just time for a quick half of cider before supper,’ she said as she swung through the door.
Soon Brenda was left alone. She picked out the notes on the piano in a half-hearted attempt to get the melody into her head before she broke into song. The Victorian hall was drab and cold, with high, exposed eaves and a door close to the stage leading into an old-fashioned kitchen. There was a brass plaque on the wall acknowledging an endowment in 1872 by Mr Josiah Foster of Hawkshead Manor. Next to it was a faded sepia photograph of the man himself in a stiff, high collar and tweed waistcoat, with a heavy moustache and round spectacles.
Brenda found that it was hard to concentrate. Her mind wandered to what might be for supper and what she would do with her Sunday morning off work. Absent-mindedly she hummed the ‘Rainbow’ tune until she heard peculiar noises in the heating pipes that ran the length of the room – loud gurgles and knocking sounds that deserved investigation. She closed the piano lid and went outside to the small stone lean-to where the boiler was housed. Here she found Bill Mostyn with his back turned and his bag of tools open on the floor.
He heard her footsteps and shone his torch in her direction. ‘Oh hello, Brenda. This boiler’s sprung a leak. I’ve had to turn the stop tap off while I work on it.’
‘Oh dear.’ She shielded her eyes from the torch beam. ‘Do you think you can mend it?’
‘I’m not sure what’s wrong yet. I might have to drain the water from the whole system.’ As luck would have it, Bob Baxendale, the caretaker, had collared Bill on the coach during the drive back from their team’s away match and asked him to take a quick look.
‘I’d get our Maurice to do it but he’s laid up with the flu,’ Bob had explained. ‘There’s no heating in the place until the boiler’s fixed and there’s a whist drive on in the hall tonight.’
Promising to see what he could do, Bill had stopped off at home to pick up his tools and come straight here.
‘Where’s the leak?’ Brenda wondered. The coal-fired boiler looked rusty and antiquated and the cramped boiler room was permeated by a smell of smoke and damp coke.
‘It could be coming from the pump. I’ll have to unscrew this casing and take a closer look.’
‘Here, let me hold the torch for you.’ She squeezed into the small space, aware of how little room there was. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and now he worked deftly with the screwdriver until the metal plate came away.
‘No, that’s not where the problem lies,’ he decided after a quick inspection. ‘Everything here is in working order.’ He knocked his elbow against her arm as he fitted the plate back into position. The torch fell from her hand and they both bent down to pick it up, their hands closing over it at the same time.
‘Sorry,’ they both said.
Surprised by the thrilling tingle of excitement that had passed between them, Bill kept his hand over hers for a moment longer than was necessary. A tremor ran through her too as she slipped her hand free and left him to pick up the torch.
He felt thrown. What was this connection between them? Every time he came across Brenda he felt a renewed interest, which he immediately pushed to one side. It was partly the way she looked, of course, but more what she said and did. He was attracted by her quick, bright way of speaking and the fearless habit of riding her motor bike up and down the dale that flashed into his mind during quiet moments. He tried to pin it down to one word and eventually came up with ‘rebel’. That must be it – Brenda Appleby was the rebel he could never be.
She took the torch from him and directed the beam towards the boiler. There it was again – that spark between them. She’d felt it and so had he. This time she would hang fire, wait for him to make the next move.
‘Do you see this hose?’ He squatted down and pointed to a tube connected to a tap on the wall. ‘The rubber’s perished so there’s no proper water flow into the boiler. I think that’s what’s wrong.’
She gave a tut and a nod. I’ll wait forever at this rate. Could Bill really be this slow to pick up a signal and respond?
‘There’s a spare piece of hose in the boot of my car. Can you hang on here a minute?’ Without waiting for an answer he ran up the yard and came back with the hose. ‘I always keep some handy,’ he explained as he squeezed in beside her. He tilted the torch so that the beam shone in the right place then used a penknife to cut the new tubing to the right length. ‘It’s a lifesaver when you’re working on tractor engines and such like.’
Engines, for goodness’ sake! The moment of hands touching had come and gone and here they were tinkering about with lengths of rubber hose – very romantic!
He picked up on her impatience and misread it. ‘Do you have to be somewhere else?’ he asked as he eased one end of the new tube onto a brass spigot. ‘If you do, I’m sure I can manage.’
‘It’s all right. I’m not in a rush.’ She was squashed in a corner and one leg had gone to sleep so she shifted her weight and lost her balance, making the torch beam shoot up towards the sloping roof.
He put out a hand to stop her from falling. She grabbed it and pulled herself upright. He kept his hand on the small of her back. They were so close that their features blurred. This was it – it was now or never. Brenda leaned in and kissed him gently on the lips.
Their fingers were still interlocked when Grace discovered them.
‘I’ve brought the Institute key.’ She looked in cool astonishment from Brenda to Bill and back again.
He let go of Brenda’s hand and stepped out of the boiler house without saying a word.
Grace held up the key and stared at him. ‘Kathleen took it with her by mistake. I offered to bring it across for Brenda to
lock the door after her.’
‘Yes, the key!’ Brenda grabbed it and made herself scarce. There was something going on here that she didn’t understand but she definitely knew when she wasn’t wanted.
Grace watched her disappear through the side door. ‘What were you and Brenda up to?’
‘Nothing. She was lending a hand, that’s all.’ A flat denial emerged through clenched teeth.
‘That didn’t look like nothing.’ It looked like betrayal from where she stood. ‘You were holding hands.’
‘She fell over. I helped her up.’
‘Bill!’
‘It’s true, hand on heart.’ His weak defence fell flat and he knew it.
Cold shock was replaced by a flare of anger from deep within. It blazed into Grace’s eyes. ‘How could you?’
‘How could I what?’
‘I don’t know – lead Brenda on like that. Let her think she has a chance.’ Their hands had been locked together and there was a second before they’d noticed her when she’d seen the look they’d exchanged. It was definitely not nothing, she told herself firmly.
‘It wasn’t me, it was her.’ He knew the moment he said this that he’d made things ten times worse. How had that slipped out? He realized that he’d stooped low and in an instant he’d lost Grace’s respect.
‘Really and truly?’ She walked away from him towards the road then stopped at the gate. ‘Even if it was that way round – and I’m not saying I believe you – it was still up to you to put her right.’
‘I know and I’m sorry.’
She laid her hand on his chest to keep him at arm’s length. ‘Brenda has no idea that we’re engaged. No one does.’
He shook his head. There was no point telling her that his father had just received more bad news from the doctor. There would have to be an operation before Christmas. Everything had landed on Bill’s shoulders with a vengeance and he had to bear it in silence for his mother’s sake.
‘Even I don’t really know where I stand.’ For once Grace didn’t spare his feelings. ‘You say you love me but you don’t always act as if you do. It’s actions I want, Bill, not words.’