by Jenny Holmes
Of course he hid these thoughts from his mother. ‘It won’t be long now,’ he murmured. ‘They’ll soon have Dad back on the ward and sitting up in bed.’
Edith gave a thin smile. ‘I’ve seen this coming for a long time. Your father works too hard and he can’t help worrying. It’s his nature. He’s been this way for as long as I’ve known him.’
Her words bit into Bill’s conscience. It was his job to take some of those worries away from his father – especially now.
A nurse stopped beside them, taking in the care-worn yet well-dressed woman’s appearance and the dark-haired, handsome son’s struggle to remain calm. ‘Mrs Wright?’ she enquired.
‘No.’ He answered for his mother so the nurse went on her way. Doors at the end of the corridor swung open then closed behind her. ‘I’ll shoulder more of the responsibilities from now on,’ he promised. ‘Dad will have to take it easy, whether he likes it or not.’
Edith patted his hand. She felt weary to the bone, as if she was a non-swimmer drowning in a sea of worries. ‘You’re a good boy,’ she murmured. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without you.’
It was an incantation that he’d heard for many years – even before he’d left school, when he’d learned from his father how to take Joe Kellett’s old Ferguson engine apart with spanners and wrenches, how to drain an oil sump and replace spark plugs, to fit new gaskets and hoses to keep the tractor going for a few more years. A quick learner, these were the occasions when Bill had won rare approval from Vince, and he’d grown determined to prove his worth first as a mechanic then as a dealer in second-hand tractors, making a profit by reconditioning engines and selling them on. By the time he was eighteen, his father’s compliments had dried up but he’d become an essential part of the rapidly expanding business.
A different nurse approached them, her shoes squeaking on the shiny brown lino. She was dark haired with a trim figure and when she spoke she had a pronounced Scottish accent. ‘Mrs Mostyn?’
‘Yes.’ Edith struggled to breathe. She reached out to grasp Bill’s hand.
‘Come this way, Mrs Mostyn. Dr Renshaw wishes to speak with you.’
Una’s experience of the last two days had re-shaped her life. All was different. She was no longer who she thought she was and she floated free of her past – of her grey, orphaned upbringing in Wellington Street, of her home life of cleaning and washing, scrubbing and dusting for her brothers. It was work that had kept her from school books and so limited her to finding a job in the mill. Now, free of all those restrictions and in love with Angelo, the world seemed to open up in front of her. The war would finish and Italy would beckon. It would be her picture that was taken in front of the Leaning Tower with Angelo’s arm around her waist. There would be sunshine and summer dresses, loving tenderness and the thrill of his touch.
‘A penny for them?’ Brenda asked as she came into the bedroom. She had just heard from one of the girls who were clearing snow on the drive that six Italian prisoners had been given the job of removing the two dead bodies from the crashed plane. They were up there now, engaged in the grisly task.
‘They’re not worth it.’ Una pushed back her blankets and swung her pale, slim legs out of bed. ‘What did Mrs Craven say? Why aren’t you at work?’
‘Would you credit it – Ma C gave us the morning off.’ Through the window Brenda saw that last night’s fog had lifted and it was possible to make out the activity on the hillside, though it was too far away to recognize individuals. The bodies would have to be carried down on stretchers, which would take most of the morning. ‘She didn’t read us the Riot Act after all. In fact, she was very decent. By the way, she said you ought to stay in bed for a while.’
‘What for? I’m not poorly.’ Una took her washbag out of her drawer and a towel from the rail next to the window. ‘What’s going on out there?’
‘I don’t envy them – they’re bringing the dead pilot and his gunner down.’
‘Who is?’ Una looked more closely at the small gang of men. They were wearing grey uniforms, progressing slowly because of their heavy burdens. ‘Have they sent POWs to do their dirty work?’
‘Yes, but hold your horses.’ Brenda saw Una fling down her towel and start to put on her breeches and Aertex shirt. ‘We don’t know if Angelo is one of them. Honestly, Una – it’s cold out there. You should stay in the warmth.’
Una didn’t listen. She was dressed and out of the room, hurrying along the landing without coat or hat until Brenda ran after her and made her put them on.
Joyce heard their voices and came out of the common room. ‘What’s up now?’ She saw that Brenda was trying to reason with Una, who seemed determined to dash out of the front door. ‘Una, aren’t you supposed to be in bed?’
Angelo! Brenda mouthed at Joyce as Una rushed on.
‘I see.’ One word explained everything and Joyce joined Brenda on the doorstep in time to see the team of prisoners carry two stretchers covered with tarpaulins into the yard to one of two waiting Land Rovers. Three British guards stood beside one of the vehicles with rifles at the ready. Among the snow clearers on the drive, Ivy had stopped work and leaned on her shovel to watch the prisoners load the stretchers into the first vehicle.
From the top step Una recognized Angelo at once. He had his back turned to her and was sliding the second stretcher out of sight. She longed to run to him.
Joyce came up beside her and put a restraining hand on her arm. She shook her head.
It wouldn’t be right, Una realized. The dead pilot and gunner had to be respected at all costs. She took a deep breath and stayed where she was.
Angelo and another prisoner closed the back door of the Land Rover. One of the guards spoke and handed something to him. He turned and came towards the house. When he saw Una he broke into a run and took the steps two at a time.
A look passed between them. His dark eyes widened and shone. She caught her breath.
He opened the palm of his right hand and showed her a small, shiny object. ‘We find in plane.’
It was a green and gold Land Army badge. Una reached up to touch her hat band. The badge was missing. It must have come unclipped when she struggled through the fuselage to reach the gunner.
Angelo handed her the enamelled badge, bright as a jewel in the daylight. He closed her fingers over it. ‘I find,’ he told her.
‘Thank you.’
Her smile was like a burst of sunshine and he basked in its glow.
The guards were calling; Ivy and the others watched with eagle eyes. Joyce’s steady hand still rested on Una’s arm.
‘I go now,’ Angelo murmured. His heart swelled as he gazed at her. He knew her heart and the yielding sweetness of her body. He would carry her with him wherever he went.
Una held her badge. There was everything to say and no time in which to say it. Critical eyes were watching. Death stamped its presence.
He smiled at her then turned away, walked down the steps, across the yard and into the Land Rover containing the bodies.
‘Good for you,’ Brenda whispered to Una as the two vehicles pulled away.
‘Yes – well done.’ Joyce had seen the look of love and pitied them both. ‘You’ll see him again tomorrow. There’ll be a little more time to talk.’
As the new week got underway, the crash-landing of the Dornier stayed at the forefront of everyone’s minds. It took the place of Christmas as the main topic of conversation in farmhouses up and down the dale and the men who had made up the search party naturally heightened the importance of their role in capturing the surviving crewman. On his way to the Canadian Air Force base with a consignment of eggs, Horace intended to stop off at Home Farm, bearing tales for the Kelletts about his and Roland’s contribution. He offered a lift to Jean and Dorothy on Cragg Hill and they arrived to find Joe giving Grace instructions about hosing down the dairy after she’d finished milking.
‘I want it doing properly,’ he snapped as he and his dog drove six of his cows a
cross the yard. ‘That floor has to be clean enough to eat your dinner off. And after you’ve finished in there, I want you to muck out the cowshed and lay fresh bedding.’
Jean and Dorothy piled out of Horace’s van to hear Grace objecting that it was too much work for one Land Girl on her own to get through. ‘You’re not on your own,’ Dorothy contradicted with an air of taking charge. ‘Good morning, Joe. Good morning, Emily. No news of Frank, I don’t suppose?’
‘No, nothing.’ There had been no sign of him since he’d broken into the hostel and Emily had almost given up hope of having him back before Christmas. She’d stopped mentioning him to Joe to avoid the stream of foul-mouthed invective that flowed from his lips every time she spoke their son’s name and there was no one in the village with whom she could share her worries. So Frank remained at large, unlooked for and unmissed except by her.
Grace wasn’t thrilled to discover that Dorothy and Jean were to be her fellow dairy maids for the day. One was bossy and the other notoriously work-shy. Besides, she would miss having Una and Brenda working alongside her.
‘Where’s the little one who uses plenty of elbow grease?’ Joe cast a critical eye over the two new arrivals.
‘You mean Una?’ Jean spoke with quiet relish as she took her time to cross the yard. ‘They’re making her and Brenda stay at the hostel until they’ve got to the bottom of what went on last night.’
Grace frowned and was further irritated when Dorothy gave her a signal to show that for now their lips were sealed.
Horace hobbled up on his bandy legs and thrust a wooden crate containing half a dozen week-old chicks into Emily’s arms. ‘Keep ’em warm and well fed,’ he instructed. ‘And don’t say I never give you anything.’
She thanked him for the chickens and carried them into the house.
‘We missed you last night,’ Horace told Joe before launching into a full account. ‘It turned out that we needed all the help we could get. There was me and Roland, together with Cliff. Roland’s lad Neville rounded up a few of the younger lads to join the search, but it was like looking for a needle in a haystack out on that fell.’
‘It’d take more than that to get me out of bed in the middle of the night.’ The fact that the pilot had ditched his bombs without a thought for who or what they might hit had kept Joe snug and warm in his bed with a clear conscience. ‘I take it Jerry was trying to limp back home to Germany?’
‘Right first time.’ Horace savoured every moment of the retelling. ‘He just missed Fieldhead, didn’t he, girls? Hilda kept them indoors and out of harm’s way, quite rightly if you ask me. Of course, there’s always one or two determined to take things into their own hands.’ A glance in Grace’s direction brought him up short. ‘Present company excepted. You were there to keep an eye on Edgar.’
Grace’s frown deepened as Jean took up the reins of gossip. ‘Joyce and Brenda nearly gave Mrs Craven a heart attack. The poor old thing was running around like a headless chicken, counting and recounting who was or wasn’t where they were supposed to be. As for Una Sharpe – well!’ Jean’s usually pale, apathetic expression grew flushed. ‘I shouldn’t really say this, Mr Kellett, but everyone knows that there’ll have to be an investigation. Una was out on the fell longer than anyone. No one knows exactly what she got up to, but people are saying that the injured gunner was likely to have got clean away if it hadn’t been for Grace here, together with Brenda and Bill—’
‘None of that is true.’ Grace cut across Jean’s last sentence. ‘Don’t listen to them, Joe. It’s Una we have to thank for bringing the prisoner in safely.’
‘How do you know that?’ Dorothy strong-armed her way into the developing argument. Her mid-brown hair was pinned back severely from her forehead and her sturdy, curvaceous figure filled out both jacket and breeches. ‘By my reckoning, there’s a full hour or more when Una’s movements are unaccounted for. It needs investigating, as Jean says.’
‘Is this just you two having a go at Una?’ Grace could hardly believe her ears. ‘Or are the others of the same mind?’
‘A lot of the girls agree with Jean and me – Ivy, for one.’
‘Elsie? Kathleen?’
‘I don’t know about them – I haven’t asked.’ Dorothy folded her arms and outstared Grace. ‘What I do know for certain is that Una hasn’t been allowed to come to work today – that must tell you something, surely.’
Grace’s voice rose to an indignant pitch. ‘Yes – that she’s exhausted from being outdoors for most of the night!’
‘Or else she’s under the shadow of suspicion,’ Jean said in an aside that Horace caught.
‘Yes – you never know with some of these Land Army girls.’ He’d had a few bad experiences himself so knew what he was talking about. ‘I’ve had flighty ones who would run away with half the village football team given the chance. And new arrivals who burst into tears at the drop of a hat. Some of them don’t know one end of a hen or a cow from the other – you know that yourself, Joe.’
‘I’m not listening to another word.’ Angrier than she’d ever been in her life, Grace stalked off into the dairy to milk the final batch of cows.
Jean and Dorothy lingered to hear the last trickle of venom from the old men’s mouths. ‘Una Sharpe is the girl who accused Frank of attacking her,’ Joe reminded Horace. ‘She seems to be a right little troublemaker. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did intend to help Jerry escape.’
‘Well, that’s disgusting.’ Horace’s short stature and bow legs gave him the air of Walt Disney’s bad-tempered dwarf, ill matched to his tone of tub-thumping oratory. Neglecting to mention his early departure from the scene, he piled on the blame. ‘We all have to pull together to get through this war. We can’t have some silly slip of a girl feeling sorry for the enemy just because she rescues one of Hitler’s blue-eyed Übermenschen. Where would we have ended up last night if our search party hadn’t been on hand? Up the creek without a paddle – that’s where.’
Dorothy leaned in towards Jean, winked at her then spoke in a whisper. ‘Best not to bring up Una’s Italian liaison, eh?’
‘Best not.’ Jean was taken aback by the strength of feeling behind Horace’s rant. It made her uneasy to see how, from one little spark, wild rumours flared, and how close to the surface resentment towards Land Army girls ran amongst some old men in the village. She set off ahead of Dorothy towards the dairy, secretly alarmed by what had been set in motion.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ivy mulled over the various theories concerning Una’s role during the previous night as she and Kathleen carried the snow-clearing shovels into an outhouse next to the row of disused stables at the back of the hostel. The ex-shorthand typist enjoyed giving her suspicions free rein as a juicier alternative to more run-of-the-mill preoccupations – how she would stretch her clothing coupons to cover three yards of pale-green jersey-knit to make a new dress for spring or how to alter the rota to avoid being sent to Winsill Edge the next day.
‘Who wants to be plucking hundreds of chickens two days before Christmas?’ she grumbled as they entered the brick shed. ‘Winsill is way off the beaten track. Without a lift out there and back again, it’ll be a miracle if I get back in time for the show.’
Kathleen gave her a dark look. ‘You’d better not be late.’
‘How can I help it if Mr Turnbull yacks on about his corns and his bunions? You know what he’s like.’
You’ll have to talk to him nicely – tell him we leave here at half past five on the dot. The Canadians are sending a lorry to take us into Burnside.’
‘Oh yes, we like the Canadians,’ Ivy said with a sly smile as she leaned the spades against the wall. There was a jumble of apparatus from the old school stacked up in one corner: broken desks, two blackboard easels and a number of metal chairs, one of which Ivy made use of for a quick sit-down.
‘We especially like Flight Lieutenant Mackenzie, according to your room-mate.’
Kathleen re-tied the blue-and-whi
te striped scarf that she wore around her head. ‘Oh no, Una’s not interested in Mac,’ she said casually. ‘She has other fish to fry.’
‘I meant Brenda.’ Ivy had heard her over breakfast, wangling her way into being sent to the Penny Lane base after work that day. ‘She claims she’s happy to pick up tablecloths and serviettes for tomorrow’s buffet, but we all know that’s just a cover for flirting with the flight lieutenant. By the way, talking of other fish—’
‘Wait.’ Kathleen heard footsteps cross the yard. She poked her head around the door to see Joyce carrying a dish of cold rice pudding to the end stable where Tibbs, the hostel cat and chief rat-catcher, had taken up residence. ‘It’s all right – carry on.’
‘Other fish and Una.’ Ivy was determined to have her say. ‘Did you see her and Angelo carrying on earlier?’
‘I saw him give her something – yes.’ Kathleen wasn’t sure that this constituted ‘carrying on’ but she was content to snatch a few minutes in the outhouse before being allocated her next task – probably in the vegetable garden, digging leeks out of the frozen ground, if she knew her luck.
‘She didn’t even try to hide how she feels about him,’ Ivy complained. ‘If I were you, Kathleen, I’d have a word with her.’
‘What about?’
‘I’d remind her about Eunice, for a start. Tell her that’s what happens if you don’t keep up your guard against our Italian friends.’
Kathleen didn’t like the way the conversation was going. As a matter of fact, she wasn’t particularly keen on Ivy, who was thick as thieves with Jean and Dorothy, neither of whom had contributed much to the Christmas show. All three seemed to share a similar, sour outlook on life. ‘Una knows how to look after herself, ta. Besides, it doesn’t do to jump to conclusions.’
‘I don’t know why you’re sticking up for her, especially after last night.’ Ivy picked up a red tartan scarf that was draped over one of the easels and flicked it in Kathleen’s direction. ‘You know what everyone’s calling her, don’t you?’