by Jenny Holmes
‘For ever?’ Joyce chuckled.
‘We’d freeze to death.’ Brenda pointed to the first large snowflakes drifting down from the leaden skies.
Evelyn sighed. ‘There’s endless space here. Who would ever know there was so much going wrong in the world?’
Hitler, Rommel, Churchill, Stalin – in this moment the world leaders were mere names on the radio, faces on Pathé News. Armies marched to military tunes that couldn’t be heard in the Yorkshire Dales, submarines crawled along the beds of distant oceans. Spitfires soared, tilted and rolled beyond the clouds over Dresden and Eindhoven, as far from Shawcross as it was possible to imagine.
‘No, not for ever,’ Evelyn said in reply to Joyce’s question. She tilted her head to feel the soft flakes land on her forehead and cheeks then opened her mouth to let them melt on her tongue. ‘Just until the war ends.’
Brenda was the first to land back in reality. ‘Not even for five more minutes,’ she said briskly as she hauled the others to their feet and Flint jumped up, ready for action. ‘We’ve only got an hour or so of daylight and at least a mile still to go.’
‘Slave driver,’ Joyce complained, even though she knew Brenda was right. She packed up the flask and cups while Evelyn tightened the knots that held their tree in place.
Brenda took hold of the barrow and forged ahead.
‘Mind the sheep!’ Evelyn called as a ewe blundered across Brenda’s path. Flint crouched low to the ground, awaiting an instruction that didn’t come. ‘Steer to your right, make a beeline for Black Crag. There’s a public footpath from there to the village. It’s by far the quickest way.’
This proved good advice and, as the group approached the landmark, the tall figure of Laurence Bradley strode towards them. He whistled to his dog then acknowledged Joyce with a brief wave before turning back and heading towards Mary’s Fall.
‘Bye-bye, Flint!’ Brenda was sad to see him go.
‘Did you see that, though?’ Evelyn picked up on Laurence’s greeting. ‘The man of steel is human after all.’
They went on, minus their four-footed friend, aware of the failing light and the thickening snow. By the time they reached the village, the flakes were falling fast and already lay two or three inches deep on the ground.
‘All our effort could come to nothing,’ Evelyn predicted as she wheeled the barrow across the pristine layer of snow covering the green. ‘At this rate, we’ll be well and truly snowed in by the time Saturday comes.’
‘Not if Dorothy has anything to do with it.’ Brenda spotted her in the church-hall doorway, eagerly awaiting their arrival. ‘Mark my words; she’s not one to let a few inches of snow get in her way.’
Swathed in a thick red scarf, with her round face almost invisible beneath her father’s oilskin, Dorothy clapped her hands. ‘Well done, you three! Come along, carry the tree inside. Will it fit through the door? Be careful! Oh yes, that’s a very decent specimen!’ Brenda and Joyce shook the snow from the tree’s branches then carried it into the hall.
‘I’ll love you and leave you,’ Evelyn called from the porch. ‘It’s high time for me to head back to Acklam before the snow gets any worse.’
She was gone before Dorothy could protest. ‘You two will stay and help me decorate, won’t you?’ she wheedled.
‘For a little while,’ Joyce agreed. She too needed to keep an eye on the weather but she took off her coat and helped Brenda to stand the tree upright in a bucket that had been filled with sand from government-issue sandbags stacked behind the hall in case of emergency.
Dorothy opened up a cardboard box filled to the brim with shiny glass baubles. ‘The tree’s leaning to the left,’ she advised. ‘That’s better. Now turn the whole thing around – let me work out its best angle. Round a bit more. Stop!’
‘Aye, aye, Captain!’ Brenda stood back while Joyce checked her watch.
‘Right, I’m off.’ Employing Evelyn’s rapid-exit method, Joyce departed, crossing paths with Emma and Alan outside the door. She brushed snowflakes from the boy’s mop of dark hair. ‘Cheer up, Christmas will be here before you know it,’ she said with an encouraging smile.
The boy sat down on a bench in the porch and Emma warned him not to stray. ‘I promised I’d keep a close eye on you,’ she reminded him. ‘I don’t want you wandering off again, especially not in this weather.’
He hung his head and watched snowflakes melt on his bare hands and knees.
‘I might as well talk to myself,’ the old housekeeper muttered before shedding an outer layer and preparing to make her mark on proceedings inside the hall. ‘That tree won’t last five minutes if you leave it there,’ she told Dorothy and Brenda, who had tied the first shiny decorations to its branches. ‘It’ll get knocked over in no time. Why not put it in the corner next to the gramophone?’
A long argument began over the best place for the tree, with Brenda on the sidelines. ‘Come inside and get warm,’ she said to Alan when she spotted him. ‘Help us with these baubles.’
He shook his head.
She went to join him. ‘I can’t say I blame you. It’s definitely a case of too many cooks in there. But you will come to the dance on Saturday?’
Another shake of the head was all the answer he gave.
‘Why not? Won’t Mr Rigg let you?’
‘I haven’t asked him.’
‘Do you think he’d say no?’
‘Don’t know. Don’t care.’ He stared at the flagged floor.
As always, Brenda’s heart went out to the lonely youngster. It’s not fair, she thought. Anyone can see that the vicarage is not the right place for him to be. He should be with kids of his own age, playing games, having fun.
‘Would you like me to ask him for you?’ she asked gently.
‘No.’ The answer came quickly. He gripped the front of the bench until his knuckles turned white. ‘I don’t want you to.’
‘All right, then, I won’t.’
‘He changed his mind about letting me have a different room and he read my last letter,’ Alan went on in sudden anguish. He hadn’t meant to tell tales, but Brenda seemed kind and the words burst out of him.
‘To your mum and dad?’
‘Yes. He said there was too many spelling mistakes. He tore it up and threw it in the fire.’
‘What did your letter say?’
‘I said it was all right living here except I hadn’t made any friends and I didn’t like the graveyard.’
Brenda took a deep breath. Spelling mistakes, my backside! She leaned in and spoke in a whisper, choosing her words carefully. ‘Why not write another letter?’ she suggested. ‘Only this time, bring it to me instead of to Mr Rigg and let me check it for mistakes. I’ve got a spare stamp so I could put it in the postbox for you.’
His eyes widened in astonishment and there was a long pause. Then he nodded.
‘Good, let’s shake on it.’ She offered Alan her hand as Emma left the hall with her tail between her legs.
‘A person knows when she’s not wanted,’ she grumbled to Brenda as she put on her coat.
‘I know, but Dorothy’s put herself in charge of the Christmas hop so it’s best to let her get on with it.’
‘As per usual,’ Emma muttered. ‘If you ask me, Bernard Huby has a lot to answer for.’
‘What do you mean?’ Brenda prompted.
‘That girl is a prime example of spare the rod and spoil the child. The same goes for her brother. Weak heart or not, there wasn’t enough discipline in that house when they were growing up.’
With a shrug of her shoulders, Brenda stood up. ‘I don’t know about that, Mrs Waterhouse. But you’ll have to excuse me; I’m starving and I’ve still got yards and yards of tinsel to hang before I’m allowed to go home and tuck into my stew and dumplings.’
Cliff stood at his window watching out for Evelyn’s return. He felt weary after what had turned out to be a long, hard day of running around after his decrepit, ailing boss that had ended with a drive i
nto Shawcross to use the telephone at the Cross Keys. He’d called Dr Brownlee’s surgery in Thwaite and explained the old man’s symptoms, only to hear that the doctor’s road was already blocked and there would be no further house calls until the snow plough had been through.
‘Keep the patient warm and make sure he has plenty to drink,’ Brownlee had advised. ‘No need to call me again unless he develops a high temperature or his breathing gets worse. But for now just keep an eye on him.’
All that for nothing. Cliff had driven back to the castle in a foul mood. He’d arrived to find the old bastard lying in a pool of piss on his bedroom floor.
‘What the heck do you think you’re doing?’ he’d demanded angrily.
The silly fool had got up to use the toilet but his legs had given way and he’d been curled up on the bare boards for over an hour, catching his death. When Cliff had picked him up off the floor to put him back to bed, he’d been shocked by how little he weighed. And the smell! He’d been forced to strip the old devil down and find some clean pyjamas then fetch a tot of rum to see if it revived him. Weatherall had downed the rum in one go and demanded more. If it makes him sleep through the night, where’s the harm? Cliff had thought.
He’d watched and breathed a sigh of relief when the old man finally closed his eyes. ‘Night-night,’ he’d muttered as he’d closed the door and trodden along the creaking landing, running his hand along the banister that was riddled with woodworm, down the stairs, across the hall and out into a Christmas-card scene of untrodden snow.
That had been half an hour earlier; enough time for Cliff to return to his keeper’s cottage and change his clothes, ready for Evelyn to come home after her escapade with the fir tree.
He saw her torch beam in the dark lane. Nothing fazed her, he realized. No shrinking violet, she would tackle fire and flood or any other disaster that came her way. His bad mood lifted and he went out to meet her.
She was through the gate before she raised her head and saw him framed in the doorway. He was smiling at her, standing without a coat.
‘What kept you?’ he asked as she drew near.
‘A blooming Christmas tree, that’s what.’ Her spirits were still high after the afternoon’s adventure and they rose again when Cliff put his arms around her waist and kissed her. ‘Don’t!’ Glancing at the upper-storey windows of the big house, she broke free.
But he simply laughed and kissed her again, this time lifting her clean off her feet. ‘Weatherall’s dead to the world.’
Evelyn freed herself a second time. ‘You don’t mean to say …’
‘Oh no, not dead dead! He’s asleep, that’s all.’ Giving a quick account of the old man’s fall but leaving out his own liquid remedy, he led her towards his cottage.
When they reached the threshold she resisted. ‘What if he wakes up?’
‘He won’t.’
‘But what if he does?’
Cliff laid his right hand on his heart. ‘Believe me, Evie, he won’t. Come in, take your coat off. Sit by the fire.’
‘The look’ and the pet name he used to woo her with turned Evelyn to putty, as they always did. Her first love, Jim, had been a steady, straightforward sort, so when she ran up against Cliff on her arrival at Acklam, his brazen flirting had knocked her for six and now she had as little power to say no as an ant has when a man’s foot is about to step on it. Instead, she sat and let him stoop to take off her boots, noticing nothing except his broad shoulders and the strong curve of his back. She ran her fingers through his thick, dark hair and wriggled her toes in the warmth of the fire.
‘Has the doctor been?’ she thought to ask as he straightened up and she glanced around the room. Cliff’s gun rested as usual to one side of the stone fireplace, next to a basket of logs and a wire-mesh fireguard. There were two pewter tankards on the mantelpiece beneath a big, black-and-white engraving of the famous Monarch of the Glen painting. Light from the fire flickered across the low ceiling.
‘No, the snow was too bad.’
A small frown creased Evelyn’s forehead.
‘Not to worry. Brownlee said to keep an eye on him, that’s all.’ Cliff pulled her to her feet and stroked her forehead then wound a lock of her hair around his finger. ‘What if I told you that you were more beautiful than ever?’
Her heart skipped. ‘Looking like this?’ She glanced down at her dungarees and bare feet. ‘I’d say you were a rotten liar.’
‘Well, you are.’ Unwinding the strand of hair, he watched it curl on to her shoulder. ‘You always look good, no matter what.’ It was the copper-coloured hair that did it, and the pale skin flecked with freckles, her eyes that were green in some lights and grey in others. And the rest of her; it was almost too much.
Evelyn’s body relaxed into his. There was no doubt in her mind about what would happen next.
He held her tight and kissed her on the lips. Her arms were around his neck as he guided her towards the door. There was one room upstairs with a bed and red curtains, a faded Turkish rug on the floor. Cliff’s jackets and shirts hung from a peg behind the door. There was one small chest of drawers. A plain room with lime-washed walls.
‘It’s all right,’ he murmured at the bottom of the narrow staircase.
She felt his breath on her ear.
‘We have plenty of time.’
She closed her eyes and let him lead her upstairs. The bedroom had his smell – of bracken, peat and heather brought indoors, of Palmolive soap and the oil he used for cleaning his gun. When she opened her eyes, he was taking off his shirt.
Her chest tightened, her heart beat fast. There was no doubt that they would make love and the pleasure of it would sweep her into a different world where all rules could be broken and she would give herself up to sensation. The shirt was cast aside. She touched the hollow at the base of his throat then ran her fingers along the ridge of his collar bone. He was waiting for her to unhook the straps of her dungarees and step out of them, leaving them crumpled on the floor as she crossed her arms to pull her shirt over her head. He liked to look at Evelyn like this, dressed only in her underwear, the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.
‘I’ll look after you,’ he assured her. ‘Tell me what you would like.’
She was too shy to say the words. Instead, she lay down on the bed, spreading her hair across the pillow and opening her arms to him, feeling his weight press her down. Her hand touched the nape of his neck. There was no need to tell him; he would know what to do.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The work in the dairy was Joyce’s favourite part of the day at Black Crag Farm. For a start it was indoors, out of the constant, biting wind that chilled her to the bone; and, what’s more, the bulky bodies of the three Friesian cows gave off steaming heat in the enclosed space of the milking shed. Secondly, the work brought her into contact with Alma.
‘What’s going to happen with the weather today?’ Joyce asked her when she carried two pails of milk into the dairy on the day after the Christmas tree adventure.
Alma stood waiting, dressed in gumboots and heavy overcoat, a brown scarf tied around her head. ‘Laurence says there’ll be no more snow.’
‘Let’s hope he’s right.’ Joyce placed the pails on the stone table. ‘Those are the last two. We’re not back to a full yield yet, but we’re on the right track.’
‘Good. The disinfectant has done the trick.’
Work talk was interspersed with easy silences as the two women carried on with their tasks.
‘Are the cows still next door?’ Alma listened out for movement.
‘No. I took them back to the barn and gave them their silage. I haven’t mucked out the milking shed yet, though.’
‘There’s no rush. By the way, Laurence told me that he saw you up on the fell yesterday. He asked me who you were with. I said I hadn’t the foggiest.’
Joyce grinned. ‘I was with Evelyn and Brenda. We were carting the blessed Christmas tree to the church hall. That was high jinks, I can
tell you. Mr Bradley had the dogs with him. Flint saw fit to pay us a visit.’
‘They were bringing sheep off the high fell but the snow got too bad. He says you and he will have to go back for them later today.’ Alma pressed the switch to operate the sterilizing and bottling machine. Glass chinked as the conveyor belt started to move. When she spoke again, she stood back from the machine and looked directly at Joyce. ‘Laurence said something interesting just now.’
‘What was that?’
‘He said he hoped you weren’t thinking of making a permanent move.’
‘To Acklam?’
‘Yes. He admitted he would miss you if you did.’
Joyce shot her a look of surprise. ‘Tell him not to worry. Two days a week doing forestry work suits me for the time being.’
‘And likewise,’ Alma went on, her cheeks reddening, ‘I would miss you too.’
Choosing her response carefully, as she would if she approached a deer in the wood, Joyce spoke softly. ‘Ta, that’s very nice of you.’
‘I mean it. Since you came to live here things have been much easier for me. I’ve had someone to talk to.’
‘Yes, I enjoy our little chats.’
‘Do you really?’ Alma shook her head in disbelief. ‘You’re not just saying that?’
‘No. I mean it.’
‘Even after the way I acted?’
‘I didn’t blame you for wanting to keep your distance. After everything that has happened to you in your life, it must take quite a while to trust a stranger in your midst. Anyway, that’s in the past.’
‘And we’re friends now?’ The word sounded strange on Alma’s lips.
To the background hum and clink of the machine, Joyce assured her that they were.
‘And you don’t notice …?’ Alma raised her hand to her scars.
Joyce shook her head.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Thank you.’ She let out a loud sigh. Fourteen years of withdrawal from the world had built a high wall that must be chipped away at, stone by stone. But this, at least, was a beginning.