by Jenny Holmes
Una was too startled to say anything, while Brenda walked swiftly to the window, folded her arms across her chest and stared out at the snow-covered elms.
‘I asked Grace to keep it a secret until I was ready to tell my parents,’ Bill confessed. ‘That was wrong of me and I regret it. It was the worst mistake of my life.’
‘You say you two were engaged. Does that mean you’re not any more?’ Una asked after a while.
Grace closed her eyes in an effort to steady herself. She could picture his face, the frown lines between his eyebrows, the clench of his jaw and the narrowing of his dark-brown eyes.
He sighed. ‘Grace saw Brenda and me in the boiler room at the Institute – you remember, Brenda?’ There was a stony silence so he carried on. ‘I won’t go into details but I shouldn’t have kissed you. It was wrong.’
Joyce walked to the window and waited for a reaction. ‘Brenda?’
‘It was my fault,’ Bill insisted. ‘I let everyone in the village think I was single. I didn’t … I shouldn’t have …’
‘Brenda?’ Joyce said again.
Brenda turned towards Bill and spoke in a voice that was unlike her own – slow and hesitant, accompanied by a look of dawning realization. ‘Grace broke off your engagement because of me?’
‘Not you – me!’ he insisted. ‘This is my fault. It might be too late to change things but I’ve come here to set the record straight.’
‘Which you’ve done, and now you should go,’ Joyce told him calmly as she pushed the door open and spied Grace at the bottom of the stairs. She could see from her face that she’d overheard every word. She went over to her and spoke earnestly. ‘Is that what you want? Would you like Bill to leave?’
He followed Joyce into the black-and-white tiled hallway. When he saw Grace, he rushed towards her but Joyce stood in his way.
Grace took a deep breath and stepped out from behind her. ‘Yes, go,’ she echoed. ‘The snow’s already deep. If you don’t leave now, the roads to the hospital will be blocked.’
‘Come with me,’ he pleaded, reaching out for her to take his hand. ‘Say you forgive me and let me drive you home.’
‘No.’ She steadied herself against the wave of emotions breaking over her head, holding Bill’s gaze for what seemed like an age. ‘I’ll stay here.’
Snow lay six inches deep. Gazing out of her bedroom window later that night, Una absorbed its pure, unmarked beauty – deep and crisp and even, as the Wenceslas carol had it. The clouds had lifted and the moon shone brightly while in the bed behind her, Kathleen slept soundly. Brenda’s bed was still empty.
The last time Una had seen her, Brenda had retired to the sick bay pleading a bad headache.
‘I’m sorry, girls,’ she’d announced before dinner as Mrs Craven had been sorting out the bedding for Grace’s overnight stay, ‘I’ve got a stinker. I might even throw up, it hurts so much.’ She’d given a wan smile, collected her pyjamas and toothbrush from their room then disappeared.
No one had commented but it surely hadn’t been Una alone who’d put down the source of Brenda’s headache to the aftermath of Bill Mostyn’s visit. Brenda had been speechless for an hour afterwards and she’d gone out of her way to avoid Grace during an impromptu rehearsal of ‘Back to the Land’ – a last-minute addition to the Christmas show.
‘As long as we can keep our faces straight while we sing it,’ Kathleen had insisted. ‘No larking about like last year.’
‘Why not?’ Elsie had favoured a spoof version of the Land Army song. ‘We can all wink at the audience and mime different actions – firing a gun, bang-bang, speeding the plough, showing our strong biceps, and so on. We’ll do it with military precision, like the Busby Berkeley girls.’
‘Yes, that would go down a treat with the powers that be,’ Jean had noted sardonically. ‘They’d love it if we made fun of being a Land Girl.’
‘We don’t care, do we, Brenda?’ Elsie had expected support but that was just before Brenda had backed out of the group. She did look pale, they’d all agreed. It definitely wasn’t like her to take to her bed.
Grace had been quiet too, but that was to be expected after Bill Mostyn’s unexpected visit. Joyce had been gently sympathetic, suggesting to Mrs Craven that Grace could have the spare bed in her room then taking her upstairs to sort out the bedclothes. ‘I won’t ask you anything about what Bill said earlier unless you want me to,’ she’d told her as they smoothed the sheets. ‘I’ll take my lead from you.’
‘No, I don’t want to talk about it, ta – except to say that I only saw Bill and Brenda holding hands at the Institute. It came as a bit of a bombshell to hear that they’d actually kissed.’ She had a new image to come to terms with now – Brenda and Bill with their arms around each other, lips touching then pressing hard, bodies clinging, passions roused.
‘Take your time to think things through,’ Joyce had said, patting the pillow case and turning back the sheets. ‘You won’t do anything hasty, I know.’
But jealousy had wormed its way into Grace’s heart and it bore a strong, unfamiliar poison. Who knew how many times Bill had kissed Brenda? He’d admitted to the one occasion because he’d been caught red handed, but what was to stop it from being more? Or to prevent it happening again and him swearing that it wasn’t so? He was good at keeping secrets, as she knew to her cost. Oh, how she wished that she no longer worried about anything that Bill said or did! But there was no getting away from it – she did still care – and cared deeply.
So the rehearsal had ended and everyone had gone their separate ways up to their rooms. The snow had stopped falling and a restless Una stood at the window, looking out. Her gaze raked across the silhouetted trees beyond the wall then across the vegetable garden, unrecognizable under a blanket of snow. It lay thick and smooth on the roofs of the stables and on the cobbles of the yard, except for a single, clear set of footprints between the back of the house and the gate leading into the vegetable patch. Who would venture outside on a night like this? she wondered. She looked again and found it even more peculiar – the footprints showed that someone had approached the house from the direction of the wood, not the other way around.
Una glanced round at Kathleen fast asleep. She looked again at the footprints and let a thrilling idea take shape. What if these were Angelo’s tracks?
No – how can they be?
What if they are his? What if he knows for certain that he’s being shipped off to Scotland and is desperate to see me?
Even so – only a madman would risk sneaking out of the camp tonight of all nights.
What if he loves me and would do anything in the world to prove it?
The dialogue galloped on inside her head, unsettling her so much that she slid her feet into her slippers and softly left the room. She crept downstairs and into the silent hallway then along the dimly lit passage that led to the kitchen and the back door.
A noise came from inside the kitchen. She hesitated. It happened again – a chair being scraped across the floor then the sound of a tap running. Disappointment reared its head – of course, it was just one of the girls unable to sleep who had come down here for a glass of water. Accepting this logic, Una forgot about the footsteps in the snow and opened the kitchen door.
Frank Kellett stood at the far end of the dark room. He let go of the cup in his hand, letting it smash in the brown earthenware sink. On the shelves to one side there were tins of flour with their lids off while other canisters spilled their contents onto the floor.
She gasped and started to back out of the room.
He took a step towards her, holding out his hand.
‘No – stay where you are.’ She shook her head as she took another step backwards.
Before Una could gather her wits, Frank lunged towards her. He took hold of her by the shoulders and pushed her off balance so that she fell backwards, knocking her head on the edge of the open door and landing in a pile on the floor.
Frank closed the door then
stood over her, his face blurring, his stale breath on her face as he crouched forward and hooked his hands under her armpits. Then he hauled her into a sitting position and leaned her against the wall. Breathing hard, she pulled down her nightdress to cover her legs then drew her knees towards her chest. She couldn’t fend him off, even though she hit out at him and tried to pummel his chest with her fists.
By now her eyes had got used to the darkness and there was just enough moonlight to see his narrow, wolf-like face and his too-close-together, glinting eyes, his matted hair and the jump of the Adam’s apple in his scrawny neck.
Terror paralysed her from head to toe. She froze and lost the ability to speak, even to cry out for help.
Frank’s face was close. He smelled of earth and dampness, of cold and sour hunger. She shuddered and groaned at the inevitability of what would happen next.
Putting one hand to her throat, he touched her cheek with his fingertips.
She shuddered again at the dry, rough feel of his fingers. He was shaking, she realized. He was staring at her, touching her hair, her collarbone, her chest. And oh, the animal smell of an outcast – the sweat and stench of neglect, the hotness of his breath. His hand pressed at her throat, her head was forced back against the damp, cold plaster.
Then the door into the passage opened and the beam of a torchlight raked across table and sink, shelves and chairs until it came to rest on Frank crouching over Una to one side of the door.
Kathleen screamed in horror. She saw a knife on the table at the moment that Frank sprang away from Una. She screamed again, loud enough to wake the whole house. He overbalanced, saved himself and jumped back up, scrabbling to reach the knife before Kathleen did. He grabbed the handle and jabbed the blade towards her.
Una took a deep, shuddering breath and got to her feet. Kathleen kept the torch beam on Frank’s face. As he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the light, he hunched his shoulders forward, moving like a cornered animal sideways towards the unbolted door that led out into the yard.
‘It’s all right, Kathleen,’ Una gasped, one hand to her throat where Frank had pressed so hard. ‘He didn’t hurt me.’
Kathleen’s screams became calls for help as they heard footsteps clatter downstairs. ‘Here – we’re in the kitchen! It’s Frank Kellett. He’s got a knife!’
Frank saw her open her mouth but heard no sounds. He saw Una in her white nightdress with her hand protecting her throat.
‘It’s all right, Frank,’ she repeated – words that came from nowhere and made no sense, even to her.
He watched her lips move. She was speaking to him but he didn’t understand. The other girl dazzled him with her torch. Two others entered the room. They opened their mouths and shouted, advancing towards him. He held out the knife to make them stop.
Joyce advanced ahead of Grace. She took in the scene and fearlessly seized the nearest chair to act as a shield. Frank thrust the knife at her. It thudded into the wooden seat. He tried to wrest it out but it was stuck solid. Joyce lifted the chair, knife and all, intending to bring it smashing down on his head. He dodged sideways and it caught his right shoulder. There was a door behind him. It was off the latch. He flung it open and as Joyce raised the chair a second time, he escaped into the night.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The whole house was awake. Though it was past midnight, every light was switched on, every Land Girl out of bed and standing in her dressing-gown outside Mrs Craven’s office as the police were called.
‘Hello? This is Hilda Craven at Fieldhead House. We’ve had an intruder. One of our girls has been attacked.’
Grace held Una’s trembling hand while Kathleen shoved her way into the office to supply more information if needed. Elsie and Joyce tried to keep everyone quiet while the phone call proceeded.
‘Her name is Una Sharpe,’ the warden went on in a slow, deliberate tone. ‘She’s twenty years old. The name of her attacker is Frank Kellett.’
‘Frank pinned her against the wall and tried to throttle her,’ Kathleen hissed in her ear. ‘He had a knife.’
The crowd of girls at the door heard the warden repeat these facts into the phone. There was a fresh buzz of outrage on Una’s behalf.
‘I’m all right.’ Una repeated the same phrases as before in a hardly audible voice. ‘He didn’t hurt me.’
‘Hush,’ Grace said, holding her hand tightly.
‘There’s blood in your hair,’ Elsie whispered over her shoulder. ‘Did he thump you on the back of the head?’
‘No, he pushed me and I fell. I hit it on the edge of the door.’
‘I understand.’ Mrs Craven had listened to what the policeman had told her. ‘We’re not to clear up the mess in the kitchen or to touch anything whatsoever. We’re to wait for a constable to arrive first thing in the morning. The snow’s too bad for anyone to get to us before then … yes, thank you, Sergeant, I do understand.’
There was a murmur of disgruntled protests at the delay. ‘Frank Kellett will have got clean away by then,’ Ivy pointed out, while Brenda took it upon herself to race upstairs and look through the landing window for his escape route.
She came back down and reported that there were two sets of footprints in the snow – one leading towards the house and another trail from the kitchen door, curving around the side of the main house towards the road. ‘The second lot are scuffed, as if he was slipping and sliding in his rush to get away,’ she reported.
By this time the warden had almost finished her conversation with the desk sergeant. ‘Yes – Frank Kellett of Home Farm, Cragg Lane, Burnside. He’s been missing from his home since Monday. He’s small and weedy-looking, with jet-black hair. Oh, and he’s stone deaf. He won’t be able to hear a word you say.’
The tight knot of listeners heard the click of the phone into its cradle. They dispersed slowly into different corners – some to the common room, others to the dining room – to talk through what had happened. This left Kathleen and Grace to take Una to the sick room to bathe the cut on her head. They found that Brenda had got there ahead of them and had already run warm water into a small enamel basin and found a wad of cotton wool and some iodine with which to clean the wound.
The girls crowded into the small, antiseptic room. It contained a narrow bed and a folding screen on castors, a sink, a medicine cupboard and a weighing scale tucked away in the corner. On the wall there were two framed prints of landscapes painted by a local artist.
‘I am all right,’ Una kept on insisting. She managed not to wince as Brenda parted her hair to dab the cut and she felt the first sting of the iodine. ‘I swear he was as frightened as I was when I opened the door on him – I could see it in his eyes.’
Kathleen disagreed. ‘Good Lord, Una – he had you pinned against the wall. I saw it for myself.’
‘There’s not too much blood.’ Brenda examined the wound. ‘It’s more of a graze than a cut. Sorry if this hurts – I just want to make sure it’s properly clean.’
‘That doesn’t mean he wasn’t frightened,’ Una reasoned. ‘I think he was in a panic – he didn’t know what he was doing.’
‘Why are you sticking up for him?’ Kathleen demanded. She ignored Grace’s attempt to quieten her. ‘Frank Kellett is well known for following us girls around then pouncing on us. He’d do God knows what to us if he got the chance.’
Una breathed in through her nose. Perhaps Kathleen was right.
Her next remark was conclusive. ‘I haven’t forgotten about Eunice, even if the rest of you have.’
The implications of Kathleen’s words hung heavily in the air as Brenda cleared away the basin and the stained swabs of cotton wool. Grace paid silent respect to the memory of the shy Land Girl with a winning smile who had chosen a tragic way out of an impossible situation. She recalled with a sharp stab of loss her discussion of the day’s events at the dinner table and the trouble she had getting up in the morning for the early shifts, the way she swore by Pond’s cold cream for face
and hands.
Kathleen felt that she had proved her point. ‘You see – that ne’er-do-well is a danger to us all. I hope the police find him and lock him up for good.’
Opinions were exchanged and details of the attack combed through. Squares of precious chocolate were shared and words of consolation showered upon Una’s throbbing head. By three o’clock, everyone was back in bed and the hostel fell quiet.
Una lay in the darkness. It was the dead of night when lives ebbed away to the tick-tick-tick of the clock. This was the hour when fragile links with the living were broken and souls departed. She felt the strong presence of death. An unexplained creak of a floorboard conjured up ghostly occupants of the old house, as did the rattle of a window pane and scratching sounds behind the oak panelling on the landing. It was only the house settling on its ancient foundations, she told herself – only the wind outside and rats scuttling along their night-time runs.
She stared up at the ceiling, using the moonlight to trace cracks in the plaster. She could make out the profile of a human face – a prominent forehead and a hooked nose, a receding chin – and less distinctly the shape of a butterfly with its wings spread wide. Minutes crawled by. She went on staring and thought of Frank, of how he’d taken her by the arm the first time she’d been sent to work at Home Farm and had been going to make off with her around the back of the barn until Emily had stepped in. He brought me some eggs, she remembered.
It was his stare that upset people. His intense, slack-jawed, unblinking stare. And his sudden movements, the clutch of his fingers as he took hold of you, as if he couldn’t judge his own strength. The unchanging, unbroken silence of his world. The lash of his father’s belt, the escape onto bleak hillsides and always the silence. A life that was cold and dark, utterly without joy.
Una made herself stay in bed until the house started to awake. A light went on and she heard voices along the landing. Creeping to the door, she opened it and saw Joyce and Grace going down the stairs. ‘Wait for me,’ she whispered as she reached for her dressing-gown and followed them.