‘Not on your Nelly,’ he said, repeating a phrase he had heard Ian Moreton use, and pulled off his boots and struck out for the nearest ship. He hadn’t gone far when he felt something sting his arm and realised he had been hit. There was a neat round hole in his jacket sleeve. He ploughed on but soon found the arm would not obey him. He rolled over on his back and kicked out with his legs. He’d get back to England if he had to swim the whole bloody way.
Swimming on his back, he was facing the shore. It was littered with burning tanks, submerged landing craft, and he dreaded to think how many bodies. The pall of smoke still hung over the town and he could see boats trying to get in close enough to take the men off; they were being subjected to murderous fire. He redoubled his efforts. August it might be, but the water was cold and his uniform was hampering him. He had to stop every now and again to tread water and rest. Then he ploughed on again. That destroyer, which had seemed so near when he set out, now looked more distant than ever. His limbs felt numb, but his brain was active, active in a useless kind of way. He was thinking of Mom and Pop, safe home in Canada, of Jenny and Laura in Beckbridge. He’d taken them both out while he’d been on leave. Jenny was tender-hearted, bright and wholesome and he liked her a lot, she brought out his protective instinct, but what he felt for Laura was different. He couldn’t describe it accurately, it was a kind of chemistry, a melding of minds. She was intelligent and kind-hearted – she had to be to do the job she did – but she was perhaps a bit more worldly-wise than Jenny, which he put down to losing her man and her mother and having to deal with badly injured airmen, some of whom were mentally, as well as physically, scarred. He remembered that afternoon when they had walked for miles.
The countryside was gently undulating, there was nothing you could call a hill. Most of it was arable, divided into quite small fields, but there were meadows where cows and sheep grazed, cottages with gardens ablaze with flowers. ‘We are supposed to dig up our flowerbeds and grow vegetables,’ she had said. ‘They call it digging for victory, but country people love their flowers and they won’t be persuaded to sacrifice them all. Even at home – in London, I mean – we kept one border for blooms and dug up the lawn to grow vegetables. Puny little things they turned out to be. The soil wasn’t very fertile. Anyway, most of the space was taken up with an Anderson shelter.’
She had turned off the tarmac lane onto a grassy bridleway. There was a spinney on one side and a field of growing wheat on the other. He thought of the rolling wheat fields of home and for a moment felt homesick. ‘Were you bombed out?’
‘No, though we lost a few windows.’
He took her hand. ‘That wasn’t the reason you came to Beckbridge, then?’
‘No.’ While they walked she had gone on to tell him more about her life before the war, about Bob and her mother, and the sudden appearance of Lady Barstairs, just when everything looked blackest. ‘She has been a brick,’ she had said.
‘Did you know you look alike? I took you for mother and daughter.’
She had laughed. ‘Someone else said that. But we’re not related. I think Mum would have said if we were.’
‘Did Lady Barstairs say any more about why she reacted so strangely when I first arrived?’
‘No. It’s her business. I haven’t asked for information. If she wants to tell me, she will.’
‘I wrote and told Mom and Pop I’d visited and the people I’d met, but it’ll be a while before I get a letter back. Perhaps when the war’s over, they’ll come over themselves. I’d like them to meet with you.’
At the time he had known he would be going back to start training for this raid on Dieppe, though he hadn’t known the name of their objective then. If this night had been anything to go by, the struggle was going to be long and bloody. He hoped whoever was responsible had learnt a useful lesson, or all the men who had died would have given their lives in vain. He wished he hadn’t come out of the dream of a sunny Beckbridge back to the cold sea. His teeth were chattering and his arm hurt like hell. Surely he must be getting near that destroyer by now. He risked turning to look. It was a little nearer. One more effort and he might make it. The trouble was he hadn’t got the strength to make it. Floating up and down on the swell, he let his mind drift.
He was a child again, racing home from school so that he could join Pop in his workshop. He liked to do that, helping him strip down an engine, or fine-tune one so that it purred like a contented cat, while Pop talked. Given a little encouragement, he always had some good stories to tell, how he could trace his family back to Irish immigrants who fled Ireland during the potato famine in the 1840s and the terrible conditions on board ship, when thousands made the same journey squashed into the holds like cattle. The O’Donovans had been agricultural labourers and, on reaching Canada, had worked for a master for a time, but land was easily acquired and with hard work and prudence they saved enough to get a place of their own and dropped the initial O, claiming it was meaningless. Pop’s grandparents had worked hard to give their son a good start in life, so by the time Grandpa married and Pop came along, they were in the way of being affluent enough to put him through engineering college. The First World War had interrupted his career, but he hadn’t said much about that, except that it was hell. It was Mom who had told him about their meeting in Beckbridge.
‘He was so handsome,’ she said. ‘All the girls fell in love with him, but it was me he chose. Little me, above all those grand people he could have had.’ Had she meant Helen Barstairs? Was that why Lady Barstairs had reacted so strangely when he arrived? He couldn’t imagine a greater contrast between the two women. Two women, he mused. Mum and Lady Barstairs; the one outgoing, noisy, her greying hair dyed the red of her youth, the other an aristocrat, thin as a rake and stiffly formal. Chalk and cheese, as his Aunt Joyce had said about Laura Drummond and Jenny Wainright when she knew he was taking them both out. Jenny. Laura. Strange, he could hear his mother weeping and Laura calling to him. ‘Rouse yourself, man! Do you want to drift right back onto that beach? Get moving and come home, why don’t you?’ He lifted his good arm feebly and let it drop. He wasn’t cold any more, just sleepy…
Daphne was reading a letter from Alec, watched by the twins. ‘What does he say?’ Donny asked, eager for news. The boys were in shorts and sandals, intending to go out on the harvest field after the reaper to catch rabbits. They would be in competition with the whole village, considering rabbit stew was a welcome addition to the minuscule meat ration, but they were young and strong and determined to come home with a brace apiece.
‘He’s coming on leave,’ she told them.
‘Yippee! When?’
‘At the weekend. He wants to know if that’s all right, Kathy.’
‘Of course it is, he doesn’t have to ask.’
She went on reading. ‘He’s seen Wayne. He says he can’t say much about it until he gets here, but Wayne’s all right though he’s been wounded.’
‘Wounded,’ Jenny echoed. ‘When? How?’
‘I don’t know. That’s all he says.’
‘It’ll be Dieppe,’ William put in. ‘That was mostly Canadians, wasn’t it?’ The newspapers had reported the raid but little had been published about what had happened. By all accounts it hadn’t been a success and was certainly not the second front everyone had been hoping for.
‘Then Alec must have been there too,’ Daphne said. ‘I wish I’d known.’
‘Why? It wouldn’t have made any difference.’
‘Do you think Joyce knows anything about it?’ Jenny asked, thinking of Wayne, not Alec.
‘Wouldn’t she have said if she did?’ Kathy looked closely at her daughter, who seemed agitated. Did that mean she and Wayne… Oh, no, not again. Ever since the Canadian had appeared in the village, everyone had been talking about him, saying what a handsome fellow he was, in spite of that red hair. And so polite, he made even the old matrons feel special when he smiled at them; and as for the young women, they lost what little sense they h
ad been born with. And it looked as though her daughter was among their number. It had been the same with his father, charming all and sundry. What had Helen made of his son’s arrival? She hadn’t liked to ask, though Joyce had volunteered the information that she had looked quite shaken. And so she might be. Suddenly to discover she was not the only girl the man had been having an affair with must have made a huge dint in her pride. Kathy could almost feel sorry for her, except at the moment all her sympathy was for Jenny and trying to prevent her from being hurt.
‘I’ll call in at the post office later and ask her,’ Jenny said. ‘Does Alec say where Wayne is?’
‘No. It’s unlikely he’d know where the casualties were being taken, don’t you think? No doubt he’ll tell us all he knows when he comes.’
Jenny left the house and made her way into the village, where she encountered Joyce cycling towards Beck Lane, her round finished. She had not heard the news. She was not Wayne’s next of kin and would not have been officially informed, a fact Jenny had already guessed. ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ she said. ‘But I don’t know what we can do about it. I know the address he gave us to write to him, but that’s a forces address. If he’s wounded, he’ll be in hospital somewhere. I expect he’ll be in touch as soon as he’s well enough. Right now I’ve got other things on my mind. Ian’s been arrested.’
‘Arrested? What for? Black marketeering?’
‘No. It was the Redcaps who came for him. He should have reported to barracks in Wiltshire last week and didn’t.’
‘Surely he knew they would come for him?’
‘The daft ha’porth seemed to think if he didn’t live at home, they wouldn’t be able to find him.’
‘Where was he living then?’
‘In Lady Barstairs’ summer house.’
‘He never was!’ Jenny could hardly suppress a smile. ‘That must have been more uncomfortable than being in the army.’
‘Anyway, it didn’t do him a ha’porth of good, someone let on where he was and Charlie Harris, who had been told to look out for him, told the military.’
‘You can’t blame Charlie. He has to do his duty.’
‘I know that. But, Jenny, I’d have a word with young Donny, if I were you, before the constable comes looking for him.’
‘Donny? I thought that had all been nipped in the bud.’
‘Seems not.’
Jenny returned home to find Helen sitting in the kitchen drinking tea with her mother. ‘Ian Moreton’s been arrested by the military police,’ she told them. ‘Dodging his call-up.’
‘I know,’ her mother said. ‘Helen just told me, but it isn’t only that. He was using the twins again. Constable Harris says they’ve got to be taught a lesson and he’s all for dragging them up in front of a magistrate. And Alec’s coming on leave in a couple of days. What will he think of me?’
‘I hope he has more sense than to blame you, Mum. Aunt Helen, how long have you known about this?’
Helen was embarrassed by the direct question. She had been condoning Moreton’s occupation of her summer house for several days, ever since she had come upon him sleeping there. He’d made himself at home, too. There were cushions and blankets and a Primus stove, a mug, a plate, packets of tea and sugar and goodness knows what else. Her furious indignation and her demand that he should take himself off before she called the police had been met with laughter. ‘I don’t think you’ll do that,’ he had said, so calmly she was taken aback. ‘You wouldn’t want your dirty linen washed in public, would you?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, you obnoxious little man.’
‘Oh, come off it. Don’t tell me you haven’t got a skeleton in the cupboard you wouldn’t want rattled.’ He paused to light a cigarette and let his words sink in.
‘I can’t think what you mean.’
‘A sad little tale of a man and a woman, not free to love but loving too freely, if you get my meaning.’ And the horrible man had tapped the side of his nose.
Added to her fury that her privacy had been invaded and the one place she held in some reverence had been violated was the dreadful knowledge that her secret was no longer safe, and it wasn’t Wayne Donovan who threatened it but this worm of a man. ‘You are talking rubbish,’ she said.
‘Am I? Call the police then.’
‘I would, but it wouldn’t be fair on your wife and daughter.’
‘Nor on yours. Though I fancy she’s already getting her pound of flesh out of you.’
She only just managed to stifle the gasp that came to her throat and hoped he would not notice she was shaking. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ She didn’t know why she continued to answer him when a dignified silence might have served her better, but she had to discover how much he knew.
‘I am talking about the madam who’s taken over the Hall. The loss of your home was a high price to pay for her silence, wasn’t it?’
She had wanted to kill him, she really had, and if there had been a weapon to hand, she might have attempted it. Instead she told him in her haughtiest lady-of-the-manor voice that she would give him twenty-four hours to pack up his stuff and leave, and if he had not gone by then, she would send for the constable. That had been several days ago and she hadn’t dared carry out her threat.
She became aware of the two women looking at her in some puzzlement for her answer. ‘I suspected he was hiding stuff in the summer house again, but as for living there… Who would want to do that when he’s got a perfectly good home?’
‘Was it you who sent for Charlie Harris?’ Jenny asked.
‘No.’ It had been Laura who had come across the man making himself at home in the summer house and had taken it upon herself to ring the constable. What Helen was not sure about was if Moreton had told Laura what he had guessed. If he had, surely she would have said something?
‘But what do we do about the twins?’ Kathy asked. ‘I begged Charlie Harris not to do anything. After all, if Ian is safely out of the way, they won’t be tempted to do anything like it again. In fact, I promised him they would not.’
‘Leave it to Daphne. She seems to be able to get through to them.’
‘Leave what to Daphne?’ The girl herself came into the kitchen in time to hear the last remark.
‘Talk to the twins,’ Jenny said. ‘They’ve got themselves in a bit of bother.’
Donny slit the back legs of the two fat buck rabbits he had killed and threaded one leg through the tendon of the other and slid them along a pole as he had seen the men do. Lenny watched him in distaste. He’d had a stout stick and had stood with everyone else in a tight circle as the reaper mowed down the last few yards of standing wheat, waiting to chase and club the animals as they ran, but he hadn’t got the heart to lash out and had let one good sized rabbit escape between his legs. Josh had been furious. ‘Dozy fool,’ he said scornfully. ‘Tha’s two hot dinners yew let go. We’ll niver mek a countryman out o’ yew.’ He held out his hand to Donny. ‘Yew did well, bor. Give ’em here. I’ll tek care of ’em.’
‘Not on yer Nelly,’ Donny said. ‘I caught ’em and I’m keepin’ ’em. Our dad’s comin’ home at the weekend and he likes rabbit pie.’
He shouldered the pole and set off for home, with Lenny in the rear. They met Daphne in the lane. ‘Good show!’ she said, indicating the rabbits. ‘Aunty Kathy will be pleased.’ She fell into step beside them. ‘Or she would be pleased if she hadn’t had some bad news from Constable Harris.’
‘What about?’ Donny felt a frisson of fear, but refused to acknowledge it.
‘Mr Moreton was arrested this morning.’
‘So what?’
‘I think you know.’
He remained silent and Lenny looked worried. Daphne ploughed on. ‘You know what he was doing was illegal, don’t you?’
‘Don’t know what he was doing.’
‘Constable Harris thinks you do. He thinks you were an accessory.’
‘What’s that?’ Lenny asked.
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‘Someone who helps a criminal. He’s considered nearly as bad as the criminal himself. You wouldn’t like to be arrested the day before your dad came home, would you?’
‘I never done anything,’ Lenny protested. ‘I wasn’t a… whatever it was you said.’
‘Of course, if you were to cooperate, tell the constable all you know, then perhaps you wouldn’t have to go to prison.’ She addressed Donny because even if Lenny was involved, his brother was most likely to be the real culprit.
‘Prison? You’re having me on.’ Nevertheless, Donny looked worried.
‘No, I’m not.’
‘It was only stuff from the Yanks. They’ve got plenty and Mr Moreton said it wasn’t fair when English people were going short and he was just re…redistributin’ it.’
‘How do you think it gets to this country?’
‘They get it sent from America.’
‘How?’
‘I dunno. Aeroplanes, ships.’
‘Yes, ships. And who has to guard those ships and risk his life so that we can have more food?’
‘Dad,’ Lenny said promptly.
‘Yes. How would you feel if your dad was drowned guarding the ships bringing food to England only to have someone like Mr Moreton take it and make money out of it?’ The argument she was using probably wouldn’t stand close examination, but she could see that Donny had become thoughtful. ‘And you helped him do it.’
‘Oh, Donny,’ Lenny wailed. ‘I said not to—’
‘Shut up!’ Donny was in a fix. He hadn’t connected his father’s job with the stuff Mr Moreton was selling but now it had been pointed out to him, he knew he had to come clean. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Come with me to see Constable Harris. Make a clean breast of it and perhaps he’ll let you off. That’s if you promise never to do it again.’
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