by Jenny Holmes
‘What time was that?’ Emma asked.
‘Around half eight. It was hardly light so I was surprised to see him out and about so early. Then I came inside and forgot all about it.’
‘Have you tried Geoff’s house?’ To Brenda it seemed the obvious line of enquiry.
‘Yes, the vicar’s looked everywhere: New Hall, the pub, the riverside footpath, the lanes leading to all the farms. No one’s seen hide nor hair of him.’
Brenda frowned at Joyce and Evelyn. ‘You don’t suppose he’d try to reach Attercliffe on foot, do you?’
‘Why would he do that?’ Evelyn asked.
‘Because his sister is living at the Whites’ place and Donald drove Alan and me there last Sunday. Alan’s got a bad case of homesickness. I thought a visit to see Judith might help.’
‘But it could actually have made him pine all the more,’ Joyce suggested. ‘What if he’s taken it into his head to walk all the way to Attercliffe?’ She imagined the boy lost on Swinsty Moor with darkness falling and with it the threat of more snow.
‘Let’s hope he stuck closer to home.’ Evelyn decided it was worth conducting a thorough search of the church hall. She went outside and quickly looked inside the lean-to building at the back where the mops, buckets and brooms were stored then came back in and opened every cupboard in the kitchen. ‘Where would I try to hide if I ran away from the vicarage?’ she wondered out loud. ‘Maybe a barn or a shed; somewhere I could keep warm.’
‘That would make sense,’ Brenda agreed. ‘But maybe Alan wasn’t thinking straight. The truth is, he could be anywhere.’
Evelyn, Joyce and Brenda shook their heads while Emma ran her fingers over the surfaces that they’d cleaned. ‘I told the vicar not to fret; the lad will find his own way back when his stomach starts to rumble. They always do.’
Concerned nevertheless, Joyce told the others that she would run and check again at New Hall. No sooner said than she grabbed her coat and hurried down the track next to the churchyard, crossing over the bridge and running up the drive to Geoff Dawson’s house. She raised the knocker and rapped loudly on the main door.
Geoff opened it with a welcoming smile. ‘Joyce, it’s nice to see you. And before you ask, it’s all in hand. I’ve arranged with Dorothy to bring the gramophone tomorrow after church.’
‘It’s not that,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Little Alan Evans has disappeared. We wondered if you’d seen him.’
Geoff invited her to step inside out of the cold. ‘I’ve only just got back from my morning calls. Let’s take a look around the back, shall we?’
She followed him into the kitchen and out of a door leading to the garden where they called the boy’s name and began to search sheds containing gardening tools and lawnmowers. They disturbed a black cat, which jumped out from under an upturned wheelbarrow and fled across the orchard.
‘Is that supposed to be lucky or unlucky, I can never remember?’ Geoff asked with a tight smile. ‘There’s no sign of the lad, I’m afraid.’
Joyce stood, hands on hips, surveying the veg patch and watching the cat disappear into a cart shed beyond. She was about to thank Geoff and report back to Emma when a movement in the shed’s dark interior caught her eye. She stiffened and looked again as the cat re-emerged into the daylight. Its back was arched and it stalked off towards the orchard. ‘Wait a second,’ she murmured.
She approached the cart shed warily and stopped a few yards short of the entrance. Her view of the interior was obscured by a length of hessian curtain screening off the contents of the shed. ‘Alan?’ she called softly.
There was no reply, only a strong sense that someone or something had taken refuge inside.
Joyce persevered. ‘Alan, are you there? Come out if you are. You’re not in any trouble.’ She waited again and saw the hessian screen shift. The runaway emerged, his face grey and peaky, his body shaking with cold. She crouched down to his level and waited for him to approach while Geoff took the wise decision to hang back out of sight.
Alan stepped forward, eyes darting this way and that.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.
He nodded.
‘Then come into the house. Let’s see what we can find for you to eat.’ She took his hand and led him across the lawn into the warm kitchen where Geoff waited. ‘Look who I’ve found!’ she said as brightly as she could. ‘A little stowaway in need of ship’s biscuits and a big helping of grog!’
‘Biscuits and grog coming up,’ Geoff said with a wink. He opened a tin containing cream crackers then produced a glass of blackcurrant juice. ‘Now knock it back,’ he urged, having made sure that the boy could grasp the glass between his frozen fingers.
Alan ate ravenously, cramming crackers into his mouth and ignoring the crumbs that fell down the front of his mac. Occasionally he paused to swig down some of the sugary drink.
‘Mr Rigg has been looking for you,’ Joyce said in an even tone.
Alan let the biscuit drop on to the table. His whole body deflated like a pricked balloon; his head dropped and his shoulders hunched and he let out a long sigh.
‘He was worried that you’d got lost,’ she explained. ‘The thing is, Alan, you have to tell Mr Rigg where you’re going instead of just wandering off. You see that, don’t you?’
Still hunched forward, he refused to respond.
Joyce glanced at Geoff. ‘I suppose I’d better tell everyone the good news.’
‘No, let me. You two stay where you are.’ Before Joyce could argue, Geoff went off to find Walter Rigg.
‘I’m sorry, Alan.’ Resisting the urge to hug him, she watched him stare unseeingly at the half-eaten cracker. ‘Mr Rigg has to be told.’
The boy remained silent but the look of panic in his eyes said it all.
‘I know you’re not keen to be sent back to the vicarage, but we don’t have any choice.’
Shaking his head, he backed away into a corner. ‘He’ll give me the cane,’ he whimpered, scarcely audible. ‘It hurts.’
‘Let’s hope not.’ After a while Joyce heard footsteps approaching round the side of the house and saw through the window that Geoff was returning with the clergyman, whose face was mottled and unsmiling. With a flash of insight she saw how big, cold, unfriendly and terrifying the world must seem to a child completely cut off from family and familiar surroundings, and she determined to have a strong exchange of words with Walter Rigg if necessary. She put an arm around Alan’s shoulder and steeled herself as the men came in.
‘There you are!’ The vicar’s bland comment gave nothing away. He put on a fixed smile and nodded at Joyce and Geoff. ‘I’m very sorry that Alan has been such a nuisance. Rest assured that I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that it doesn’t happen again.’
‘No trouble,’ Geoff assured him. His Adam’s apple moved up and down repeatedly as he swallowed back what he was tempted to say and looked intently at Joyce.
‘No trouble at all,’ she echoed, her intention to confront the vicar wilting under his blank, brick-wall gaze. ‘In fact, I’d like Alan to help us decorate the hall after church tomorrow if that’s all right with you.’
Wrong-footed, Rigg gave a startled blink then made a hasty excuse. ‘No, the boy would only get in the way.’
‘Not at all. And it would do him good to join in with events in the village in the run-up to Christmas. We can help Alan to get in the festive mood by letting him hang paper chains and so on.’
‘I disagree.’ A glint of resentment at Joyce’s interference appeared in Walter Rigg’s eyes. ‘Treats have to be earned through good behaviour and I’m afraid Alan has still to learn that lesson.’
Joyce’s reply was slow and deliberate. ‘On the contrary, I find him very polite and well behaved, if a little shy. In my opinion he should be encouraged out of his shell by joining in with whatever is going on.’
Rigg jutted out his bottom lip and stood his ground. ‘No, not tomorrow.’
She judged her next move the
n spoke even more firmly. ‘That’s a pity because I hear that Alan isn’t due to start school in Thwaite until after Christmas and that means he has no chance to make friends of his own age. That certainly wouldn’t be what his mother and father had in mind when they sent him here. I’m sure they thought that he would be carrying on with his schooling straight away.’
The colour deepened in Rigg’s face, prompting Geoff to clear his throat and take a step forward. ‘I’ll tell you what, why don’t we make a decision tomorrow morning when things have cooled down?’
A curt nod from Rigg brought the conversation to a close. ‘Come with me, Alan.’
The boy cringed as the vicar held out his hand.
Rigg took a firm hold of his wrist and marched him towards the door. ‘And when we get home I will expect you to give a full account of what you’ve been up to since eight o’clock this morning. No fibs, no excuses.’
Joyce swallowed hard. ‘I’ll walk part of the way with you,’ she volunteered.
‘And I’ll see everyone at church tomorrow morning,’ Geoff promised as he held open the front door. He smiled ruefully at Joyce as she walked down the drive with Rigg and Alan in miserable silence.
They went over the bridge and up the lane towards the church, to be met by a relieved Brenda and Evelyn. Emma had already disappeared into her cottage and Dorothy was hurrying across the green to rejoin the group.
‘Good; all’s well that ends well!’ Brenda declared when she saw Alan with the vicar.
Walter Rigg hurried the boy on towards the vicarage without saying a word.
‘Oh dear,’ Evelyn commented as she fetched her bike from the church hall porch.
‘Yes; oh dear.’ Joyce was forced to accept that her latest attempts to help could well have backfired. Her only hope was that Rigg wouldn’t be too harsh on Alan now that he knew that she and Geoff were keeping a close eye on him. Whatever happened to the spirit of good will? she wondered. She was about to set off on the long walk to Black Crag Farm when Dorothy joined them.
‘Brenda, you have to get on your motor bike and ride like the wind to Attercliffe,’ she said, her face flushed with excitement. ‘Now, right this minute!’
Brenda’s heart thudded against her ribs. ‘Why? What’s happened?’ But she knew without being told. ‘It’s Hettie, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know. They – he – didn’t say.’ Dorothy’s words came out in a rush. ‘There was a telephone call. It was a man’s voice. He said please could you go straight away, without any delay. There; that’s all I can remember.’
Brenda’s heart went on knocking against her ribs and her mouth was dry but she forced herself into action. She set off across the green at a run, through the gate and up the lane to Garthside, dragging air into her lungs, afraid that her legs would give out before she reached the farmyard. She arrived at last and ran inside for her jacket and goggles, was out again and kicking Sloper into action almost without knowing it. Then she set off for Attercliffe, weighed down by the prospect of what lay ahead.
Donald waited at the door of Dale End, his face drained of colour. There was no greeting for Brenda, only a gesture that said she should hurry inside.
With mounting dread she went in to find Arnold hovering at the entrance to his study, his face similarly grim, his stance uncertain.
‘She’s upstairs in bed.’ He rolled his eyes towards the wide staircase, indicating that Brenda should go up.
She hesitated and glanced at Donald. ‘Will you show me which room it is?’
He nodded then took her upstairs and along the landing, opening a door into his sister’s room before backing up against the banister overlooking the hall below.
Brenda stepped inside, leaving the door open and waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. The blackout blinds were down and the four-poster bed was draped with scarlet brocade curtains whose swirling pattern caught the yellow light of a table lamp next to the bed. Its sheen held Brenda’s attention as she went closer. Then she forced herself to look at the bed’s occupant.
Hettie lay with her eyes open and her hands free of the white sheets. They rested on the counterpane and her dark hair was loose on the pillow. Only her eyes moved as Brenda approached then sat on the edge of the carved oak chair at the side of the bed. ‘What are you doing here? I didn’t ask for you to come,’ she said with infinite weariness.
‘I think it was Donald’s idea. Shall I go away again?’
Hettie’s eyes closed briefly. When she opened them, tears formed and trickled down her deathly pale cheeks. ‘He told Les to come too. I didn’t want him to.’
Brenda reached out to touch the gleaming red bed cover. ‘Will the Navy let him?’
‘I don’t know,’ was the agonized response. ‘Brenda, you understand that I don’t want Les to see me like this.’ One skeletal hand moved to clasp her visitor’s.
‘I do,’ Brenda whispered back. She cradled the bony hand. ‘But dear Hettie, Les loves you. He won’t mind how you look. And Donald loves you, too – very much. He’s done what he thinks is best.’
The dying woman’s sunken eyes were fixed on Brenda’s face and her breath came in shallow, uneven bursts. ‘I didn’t let them see Mother in this state. Was that wrong of me?’
‘No, they were very young then. You wanted to shield them. But they’re grown men now and they love you.’ She repeated this idea, hoping that it would break down the last barrier that Hettie would ever build so that the family could say their goodbyes to this dignified, imperious, handsome woman. Brenda thought of what Hettie had sacrificed in her life – independence, marriage, the chance of having children of her own – all through unquestioning devotion to her father and brothers. ‘And I’ve always looked up to you, Hettie. I was scared of you at first, I don’t mind admitting. I called you the dragon-sister.’
‘Yes, Les told me.’ Hettie’s fingers closed softly around Brenda’s hand.
‘The first time we met, you lent me a pair of your slacks, do you remember?’
Hettie nodded. ‘You were riding your motor bike. Donald forced you off the road in Les’s sports car. Your trousers were ruined.’
‘It was Fate,’ Brenda told her. ‘If I hadn’t had the accident, I’d never have met the man I’m going to marry.’
Outside the room, Arnold had joined Donald. Their low voices attracted Hettie’s attention and frown lines creased her forehead.
‘Shall I close the door?’ Brenda asked.
‘Yes, please.’
So she trod softly across the room. ‘You don’t mind?’ she checked with the two men as she made as if to shut the door.
Arnold put out his hand to stop her. ‘Is Hettie awake?’
‘Yes, but she’s very tired.’
‘Les is here.’ Paralysed by a sense of impending loss, Hettie’s father and brother looked to Brenda to tell them what to do. Nothing remained of Arnold’s clipped, military manner or of Donald’s devil-may-care gregariousness. Grief had stripped them bare.
‘Tell him to come up,’ Brenda whispered. ‘Or rather, wait a second.’ She retraced her steps to Hettie’s bedside. ‘Will you see Les after all?’ she asked as she stroked her hand.
A faint nod gave Brenda the permission she needed so she withdrew again and hurried straight downstairs to find Les waiting in the tiled hall, Royal Navy cap in hand, the gold braid on his dark blue jacket denoting his rank of chief petty officer. He was the same but different; his fair hair was shorter, his face more tanned, but he was still slight and had kept the edge of vulnerability that his smart uniform couldn’t completely disguise. Her heart almost burst to see him.
‘I came as quick as I could,’ he stammered.
She took a deep, shuddering breath to keep control of herself.
‘I’m not too late?’
Brenda shook her head and took his hand. They went upstairs together. On the landing Les exchanged looks with his father and brother but didn’t speak to them as he went on alone into his sister’s room.
‘Thank you,’ Brenda whispered to Donald as Les closed the door behind him.
The light faded quickly in a sky that had been leaden all day. Les was with Hettie when she breathed her last, stroking her forehead and leaning in to touch her cheek with his lips. Then he sat with her in the deepest of all silences, watching the change in Hettie’s physical being as life departed; an absence where there had been a presence, an absolute stillness.
After a quarter of an hour he went to the door. He held it open to let his father and brother see and understand.
Downstairs he found Brenda in the sitting room, turning towards him with quiet certainty in her dark brown eyes.
‘She’s gone,’ he confirmed.
Brenda held his hands. She felt the weight of them and sensed his acceptance, knowing that the sharp stabs of loss had not yet set in. Then they sat together on Hettie’s favourite sofa, looking out on to her garden. Her bed of yellow roses was pruned and bare; it would be many months before new flower buds formed.
‘They gave me twenty-four hours,’ Les said quietly. ‘I’ve to be back in Portsmouth by midday tomorrow.’
‘You were here when it happened. That’s what matters.’
Upstairs there was the click of a door closing followed by the tread of two sets of footsteps along the landing. Then silence again.
‘I don’t know how Dad will manage without her.’
‘He will, though. He still has Donald and you. And a farm and a business to run.’ But Brenda acknowledged that there was a particular type of savage sorrow when a child died; an upsetting of the natural order that made it all the harder to bear. It would take a long time for Arnold to get over this, or to live with it at least.
‘I’ll apply for funeral leave, once we know when it is. Before Christmas, let’s hope.’
Christmas! Brenda’s thoughts flew back to the time in the Cross Keys where Dorothy had encouraged them all to share light-hearted seasonal wishes, when it had been Joyce who had introduced the sober note and fervently wished for the safety of loved ones during the war-torn times. Trust Joyce to hit the nail on the head. ‘Will you still be in Portsmouth?’ she asked.