by Jenny Holmes
‘We get the picture,’ Brenda said with a laugh. ‘And what about the estate? Is there an actual castle?’
‘Yes, what’s left of one; more like a heap of old stones, really.’ Evelyn drank swiftly to catch up with the others. ‘The colonel moulders away in the only part of the building that still has a roof while the rest falls down around his ears. One of these days I expect to find him buried under a heap of rubble.’
‘And wouldn’t that be a blessing?’ Dorothy giggled.
‘You two will have to come over to Acklam one Sunday,’ Evelyn suggested to Joyce and Brenda. ‘It’s a mile and a half as the crow flies, a bit further by road.’
‘We will,’ Brenda agreed. ‘After this weekend I’ll have the use of my motor bike, touch wood.’
It was agreed; there would be a visit early in December, before the weather got too grim. They made the arrangement as the landlord called last orders.
‘That’s too bad.’ Brenda shivered as she pictured the chilly goods wagon that she now called home. Then she glanced around the cosy, crowded Snug, at the assembled company of farmers old and young, all in flat caps and tweed jackets, nursing the cloudy remains of their pints of bitter. Walter Rigg was still there, brandy glass in hand, chatting with the landlord, Fred Williams, who was in shirtsleeves and braces, methodically wiping glasses as he waited for the place to empty.
‘Before we go out into the cold, let’s have one last drink.’ Evelyn stood up to go to the bar.
‘And while we’re waiting, why not play a little game?’ Dorothy suggested.
Happy to comply, Joyce and Brenda looked around for a set of dominoes or a pack of playing cards.
‘No, not that kind of game; I mean a wishing game.’
‘Rightio.’ Joyce’s reaction to Dorothy’s whimsical idea was cautious.
‘It goes like this …’ Dorothy rose tipsily to her feet. The bottom of her blouse had come untucked from the waistband of her skirt, her lipstick was smudged and an unruly curl of brown hair fell over her forehead. ‘Pretend I’m a magician. I can wave my magic wand and grant you any wish you want. Now you have to tell me what that wish would be.’
‘Any wish at all?’ Brenda was thrown. Half a dozen ideas came to mind – I wish I had a room with a fire and an easy chair. I wish the weather wasn’t so blooming cold. I wish Les would write to me more often.
‘Yes – a proper Christmas wish,’ Dorothy insisted. ‘Do you hear that, Evelyn? We’re all going to share a special wish to end the evening.’
‘That’s easy.’ Evelyn’s answer came in an instant as she handed out the drinks. ‘I wish they would pay me a man’s wage for the man’s work I do.’
‘Hear, hear!’ Brenda and Joyce cried.
‘What’s that got to do with Christmas?’ Dorothy popped her lips then went on to share her festive dream. ‘On Christmas Day I wish Dad, Cliff and I could sit down to a big fat turkey with all the trimmings. I wish we girls could all go on an outing to Millwood to watch Aladdin. I wish—’
‘Hold your horses; you said one each.’ Joyce leaned across the table to put a steadying hand on Dorothy’s arm. ‘Would you like to hear mine?’
‘Yes!’ Dorothy joined in with Evelyn and Brenda’s raucous cries.
‘Then here it is. I wish that all our loved ones, our nearest and dearest whoever they are and wherever they may be, can stay out of harm’s way until the war is finally won and they come safely back home. There; how’s that?’
‘Perfect,’ Brenda said as she raised her glass and looked from Joyce to Evelyn and then to Dorothy. ‘All four of us will drink to that!’
CHAPTER SIX
‘Get Dawson to take a look at Flint’s back leg while you’re at it,’ Laurence told Joyce when his two collies jumped eagerly into the back of the Land-Rover, expecting to be put to work as usual.
In fact, Joyce was about to drive to the vet’s surgery in Shawcross to pick up a bottle of disinfectant that they needed for a cow’s infected teat.
‘Right you are,’ she replied as she turned on the engine.
She’d worked for four days at Black Crag Farm without a single please or thank-you, penning dozens of Swaledales to check the feet of ones that were lame, milking cows and mucking out the cowshed. She’d bottled and sterilized, dug a ditch and hacked away at a hawthorn hedge. She’d taken the work in her stride, but at the end of each day she’d climbed the wooden steps to her attic quarters and fallen into bed exhausted. She’d slept soundly and woken in the morning to the sound of a door opening then clicking shut on the landing below, followed by Laurence’s brisk footfall and the more distant sound of tap water running into the kitchen sink.
Even though it was still dark, this was Joyce’s signal to get up and dressed. Then she would descend the stairs and pass the two doorways on the landing, down more stairs, across the kitchen and straight out into the unlit farmyard without so much as a hello from Laurence. There were the three cows to be milked, and only after that a cup of tea and a bite to eat. By this time Alma would be up, making porridge and setting out the breakfast things. She would nod at Joyce but not speak, turning away her damaged face to pay attention to Laurence’s orders for the day: sweep the floors, clean out the fire grates, wash and iron, polish, bake. Alma would nod then quietly set about her tasks.
Joyce had observed the ill-matched couple without comment, though sometimes her hackles would rise at the control Laurence held over his wife’s routine.
‘You’re not to bake scones this week,’ he had told Alma on Friday morning. ‘We’re out of dried eggs and raisins.’
Alma had frowned, as if about to argue. Then she’d glanced at Joyce and remained silent, her face reddening as she retied her apron strings into a tighter bow before clattering dirty dishes into the sink.
If that’s marriage, give me the single life any day, Joyce concluded. In any case, she was sure she would never agree to marry a man like Laurence Bradley, who was the opposite of her own fiancé. Edgar never dished out orders; he was a sensitive, devoted and kindly soul.
Glad that she’d posted a letter to him in time for the end-of-week collection, she now looked forward to receiving his reply.
‘On second thoughts, leave Patch here with me.’ Laurence changed his mind just as Joyce was about to pull out of the yard. He whistled the black-and-white dog, which leaped down from the Land-Rover and went to sit quietly at his master’s feet. ‘Afterwards, you and Flint can join us at Mary’s Fall.’
Glad of a short respite away from the farm, Joyce set off with the grey speckled Border collie. Last night and again this morning she’d noticed a reduced yield in one of the cows and discovered that her teat was swollen. Laurence had given her the name and address of the local vet: Geoffrey Dawson, New Hall, Riverside, Shawcross. ‘Tell him we won’t waste his time by fetching him out. We just need the disinfectant. Be as quick as you can.’
So Joyce drove down into the valley under a blue sky, glad that this was Saturday and a half day off but remembering that Brenda had already made plans for the weekend so she would have to entertain herself, unless she walked the mile and a half to the Acklam Castle estate to see if Evelyn was at a loose end. Joyce didn’t think that their new acquaintance would object to an unannounced visit but she would wait and see if the good weather held before she finally decided.
Soon the village came into view; first the square church tower and then the vicarage and church hall facing on to the green. Joyce negotiated a sharp bend then came to a narrow packhorse bridge over a stream before levelling out for the final approach into Shawcross. As she arrived, she noticed Walter Rigg emerge from his house with Alan trailing forlornly behind. The vicar said something to the boy who ran back into the house and emerged on to the driveway carrying his coat, which he put on as the vicar started his car. Alan pulled his cap from his pocket then got in. As he did so, a piece of white paper fell to the ground. A gust of wind caught it and blew it on to the green.
The vicar’s black Fo
rd had already disappeared along the Burnside road before Joyce had time to stop the Land-Rover and jump out to retrieve what turned out to be a letter beginning, Dear Mummy and Daddy.
Making a mental note to keep the paper safe, she put it in her pocket then drove on slowly past the row of cottages, looking out for a narrow turn that ought to take her to New Hall. Sure enough, a rutted track ran down the side of the cottages towards the river where there was another bridge and on the far bank a substantial Queen Anne house with long windows to either side of an impressive doorway overlooking wide lawns and backed by mature oak trees.
As the Land-Rover slowed for the bridge, Flint crept forward to join Joyce. He slunk on to the passenger seat and peered through the windscreen, pink tongue lolling and ears pricked.
‘You recognize where we are and why we’ve come, is that it?’ she said with a laugh. ‘Stay!’ she told him. ‘I’ll come and fetch you in a minute.’
She went straight to the front door then glanced down at her muddy boots and hesitated; perhaps there was a tradesmen’s entrance she should use? So she tramped along the front of the house and was about to disappear round the side when the front door opened and a man appeared. He was about thirty; tall and rangy, casually dressed in slacks and checked shirt with rolled-back sleeves. His hair was almost black and he had dark, deep-set eyes.
‘Can I help you?’ he called to Joyce.
She strode back. ‘I’m looking for Mr Dawson.’
‘Well, you’ve found him.’ He came down the steps with his hand outstretched, taking in her uniform. ‘You’re in the Land Army, I presume?’
‘Yes. I’m Joyce Cutler. I work for Mr Bradley at Black Crag Farm.’
‘Lucky you,’ he said with a slight rise of his eyebrows before glancing towards the Land-Rover. ‘Well, Miss Cutler, who have you got in there with you?’
‘That’s Flint. He’s gone lame.’
‘Has he, now?’
‘Yes, but the main reason I’m here is to ask you for some disinfectant for one of our cows’ teats. We’ve run out.’
‘I take it she has a touch of mastitis?’ Geoffrey Dawson walked with Joyce around the side of the house. ‘I run the surgery from an extension round the back. Are you sure you don’t want me to come out to Black Crag and take a look?’
Joyce shook her head. ‘Mr Bradley gave me strict instructions to ask for the disinfectant, nothing else.’
There was no comment from the young vet as he led her into a single-storey building constructed much more recently than the original house. Inside there was a spotlessly clean reception area leading to a treatment room and a smaller side room containing shelves stacked with medicines and surgical paraphernalia.
Geoffrey picked out a ridged brown bottle and handed it to Joyce. ‘Use this on all the teats and on the other cows in the shed as well. Do it thoroughly after every milking. I don’t need to tell you that mastitis is highly infectious and it can be tricky to clear up.’
Joyce promised to follow his instructions. ‘I’m better with sheep than cows,’ she confessed. ‘I grew up with them on my father’s farm. As far as cows are concerned, I’m learning on the job.’
Geoffrey listened attentively with his head to one side, a wayward lick of dark hair sticking upright on his crown. He liked the look of the new Land Girl with the cheerful, open expression and clear grey eyes set off by the forward tilt of her brimmed hat. ‘Have you got time for a cup of tea before I examine the dog?’
‘Yes, if you can make it a quick one.’
She followed him through a door that linked the surgery to the main house and they entered a spacious, well-equipped kitchen with a large window overlooking a garden where there was an apple orchard that had been pruned back in readiness for winter. Joyce admired the view while Geoffrey made the tea.
‘How are you getting along with our friend, Laurence Bradley?’ he asked as he handed her a steaming mug.
‘Well enough, thank you.’ Discreet as always, she took her first sip.
‘He doesn’t work you too hard?’
‘No. I can get by, ta.’
‘Good for you.’ Geoffrey stood beside her at the window.
‘Who looks after your garden?’ Joyce admired some neat rows of cabbages and Brussels sprouts.
‘I do most of it myself. Evelyn Newbold lends a hand with the orchard when she has time. She belongs to the Timber Corps. You’ve met her, I suppose?’
‘Yes, twice.’ Aware of the time slipping by, Joyce cut the conversation short. ‘Shall we look at the dog while the tea cools?’
So they went outside to the Land-Rover and Geoffrey cast an expert eye over Flint. He spoke quietly as he felt the joints of the affected leg for any swelling then examined the soft pads of the foot. ‘Take it easy, old chap. I’m not going to hurt you. Aha, here we are!’ He showed Joyce an ulcerated area oozing with pus partly concealed by fur. ‘It most likely started with a small cut that became infected. The best thing to do is to soak the foot in hot water then poultice it. I’ll give you some antiseptic ointment to apply before you bandage it. The poor chap will have to be kept off work for a few days.’
Joyce nodded. ‘I’ll let Mr Bradley know.’
‘Tea?’ he reminded her after he’d given Joyce the disinfectant and the antiseptic ointment and she’d returned Flint to the front seat of the Land-Rover.
‘If I’m really quick.’
Back in the kitchen, the probing continued. ‘How’s Alma Bradley? Have you had much to do with her?’
‘Not really.’
‘But she’s hale and hearty?’
‘She seems to be.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘You mean, why don’t I mind my own business?’ Geoffrey turned to the sink with an apologetic shrug. ‘I’m sorry for putting you on the spot; it’s just that no one in the village has seen hide nor hair of Alma since the wedding back in August. We’re all a little bit worried about her.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m sorry; it’s not like me to encourage gossip.’ He seemed genuinely embarrassed as he took Joyce’s empty cup. ‘The thing is, Alma doesn’t have family in the village. She’d lived away from Shawcross for a long time so the marriage to Laurence took everyone by surprise.’
‘How old is she?’ Joyce asked in spite of her earlier reticence.
‘Twenty-two. Has she told you what happened to her face?’
Joyce opened her eyes wide. ‘You mean Alma can speak?’
Geoffrey nodded. ‘If she wants to, she can. She stood in front of the vicar and said “I do” as clear as a bell.’
‘Her face?’ Curiosity again got the better of Joyce and she returned to the mystery of Alma’s scars. ‘Was it a fire?’
‘Yes, when she was eight years old. She lived with her family on a smallholding half a mile downriver from here. The whole house burned to the ground. I was home from veterinary college for the Christmas holidays when it happened so I remember it well. Alma was the only one who came out alive.’
‘But she can talk.’ Alma’s choice to remain silent was a conundrum that Joyce couldn’t solve. ‘Thanks, Mr Dawson. I appreciate you telling me.’
He nodded and accompanied her through the surgery out into the yard. ‘Let’s do away with the formalities,’ he said as they shook hands again. ‘Call me Geoff and, if you don’t mind, I’ll drop the Miss Cutler.’
‘Thanks, Geoff,’ she said with a smile. ‘And by all means, call me Joyce.’
He returned the smile and tapped the bottle of disinfectant tucked under her arm. ‘Twice a day, morning and evening. If it doesn’t do the trick, tell Laurence he’ll have to stump up for a visit from me, like it or not.’
Joyce began the drive back to Black Crag Farm by sifting through the facts she’d learned about Laurence and Alma’s unusual situation. She was preoccupied as she crossed the river but when she emerged on to the village green and saw Walter Rigg’s Ford car parked outside the vic
arage, she suddenly remembered Alan’s letter. She would drop it off with its owner, she decided. But she fumbled as she put on the handbrake and the letter fluttered from her pocket down on to the muddy floor.
Oh dear; Alan will have to write it out again on a clean sheet of paper, Joyce thought as she retrieved it and smoothed it flat.
Dear Mummy and Daddy
The blue ink was smudged, the crumpled paper smeared with mud.
I am settling quite well here in Shawcross. I miss you a lot.
The next part was illegible so Joyce had to pick up the thread two lines further down.
How are you both? Well, I hope you are getting on all right without me and Judith. My foster father is Mr Rigg. He is very cheerful.
More smudges marred the next short section. Then Joyce read:
It is really quiet here. I will have to go to school in the next village, which is called Thwaite. The house that I live in is called The Vicarage. It has four master bedrooms. There is a graveyard with a white angel outside my window. It is quite lonely here. I really miss you and I wish you were here.
Love from your best son,
Alan
Perfectly punctuated, written in laborious, joined-up handwriting, the letter touched Joyce deeply. Poor little lamb, trying to be brave yet obviously longing to be at home with his family.
Home was Millwood, where the bombs dropped with fierce regularity on the mills manufacturing cloth for army uniforms, where sensible, self-sacrificing parents chose to ship their children off to the countryside with gas masks strapped around their slight shoulders, their belongings clearly labelled. Sent off to be with strangers and to cry bitter, homesick tears, and in Alan’s case to look out over a graveyard stacked with dead bodies, guarded by a stone angel.
‘Poor little lamb,’ Joyce said out loud.
She walked up the vicarage path and knocked on the door. The vicar appeared minus his dog collar and in shirtsleeves, his belly barely restrained by belt and braces. He beamed at Joyce as he took Alan’s letter and she caught a glimpse of the boy hovering nervously at the bottom of the stairs.