by Roland Moore
As her breathing slowed, calmed by Henry’s gentle presence, he guided her over to the pub. To anyone looking, it appeared to be an idyllic situation – a young couple in love sharing a drink together on a sunny evening. Connie gulped down the cider that Henry had bought her and felt her head spin with a new kind of wooziness. Now, calmed by his presence and alcohol, Connie was able to slowly tell Henry what had happened. Despite hating herself for every word, she told him about Vince Halliday.
The young woman was dressed in a grimy frock. But her hair was clean and still wet from a hurried wash in the bathroom of a Lyons’ Corner House. She stood on the street corner, a small hat by her feet, and sang ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’ to passing men and women. With her lovely voice, people stopped to listen and sometimes even contributed a coin to her collection. Connie had been forced to make money this way since things ended with Danny Sparks and she’d found herself out on her ear. But on this Sunday morning, Connie finished the chorus and noticed a burly man smiling awkwardly at her. He offered to buy her some food, intending to visit the same Lyons’ Corner House from where she’d had to make a hurried exit earlier after being caught washing her hair. Connie suggested they go to a pub instead. And that’s how she’d met Vince Halliday. A man who seemed like a benevolent spirit, or at least as benevolent as any men were capable of being.
Soon Connie was living with Vince, an uneasy marriage of business and occasional pleasure.
“So you slept together?” Henry found the words hard to say.
Connie nodded, feeling another mark against her. Yes, she’d slept with Vince. Just as she’d slept with Danny Sparks. And although she didn’t really regret it, she hated seeing the hurt on Henry’s face. He’d been a virgin when they married and Connie had intentionally not mentioned anything sexual from her past. As far as Henry was concerned, she kidded herself that he may even think she might be innocent.
In her more naive moments with Vince, Connie wondered if they were courting. But realistically there was nothing romantic about their life together. Vince bought Connie a beautiful dress. It was her uniform for the scams they would operate together. Connie would be the bait, to lure men in, and then Vince would extort money from them. It was the same scam that he’d later do with Gloria Wayland, to lesser effect. Few men could resist Connie and soon Vince was extorting money from a large number of married men in the East End.
Connie blushed with shame as she told Henry this. Was he judging her? His face maintained a neutral stance, but he showed encouragement for her to finish the story. Connie thought she might as well tell him everything. In for a penny …
One night the scam went wrong.
Working at one of the smart hotels in central London, Connie had swanned into a whisky bar and quickly aroused interest in one of the lone drinkers. The man was bald, stocky and had signet rings on every finger of his hands. Connie had misgivings immediately, wary of the signals her brain was trying to give her. Stay away from this man. But it was too late. She was already talking to him. He was already buying a drink for her. But something else was wrong. Vince wasn’t there. Usually, he’d sit at the other end of the bar or restaurant, watching Connie luring in a gullible married man, and then he’d surreptitiously follow them to the hotel. But where was he?
As Connie led the man to the hotel, she hoped that Vince would be there soon. She needed him to jump the man when they got inside the room. Connie and the bald man walked up the stairs to the hotel room. He’d tried to kiss her on the way up, but she’d told him to wait. Plenty of time for all that.
Henry’s face fell. Connie hated the effect this was having on him. But she had to tell him before Vince told him. Who knew what embellishments he’d add to stick the knife in? She soldiered on.
When they got to the room, the bald man went to lock the door. Connie told him to leave it unlocked and he became suspicious. First she didn’t want to kiss him, now she wanted the door unlocked. What was going on? Connie couldn’t come up with anything convincing, her usual quick-witted brain failing her spectacularly. On a short fuse, the man grabbed her by the throat and demanded to know what she was playing at. She felt his thumbs pressing at her windpipe. There was a strange wheezing sound, which Connie realised was coming from her. She tried to bat him away, claw at his arms, anything. As Connie struggled, the door flew open and a panting Vince Halliday burst into the room. He punched the man hard in the face, sending him crashing unconscious against the wall. Vince yanked Connie’s arm and told her to get out. There had been a dreadful mistake.
“Ain’t we going to blackmail him?” Connie asked, being shunted out the door. Vince didn’t answer, too scared to even speak unless the man recognised his voice.
They ran as fast as they could back to Vince’s flat. Once there, Vince explained that the man was Amos Ackerly, a vicious gangster. Vince was worried that he’d be a marked man now. Had Amos seen him? Connie was appalled that Vince was only worrying about himself. He’d seen her for sure, even knew her name! After a sleepless night, waiting for their door to be kicked in, Connie made a decision. She had to get away.
And that’s why Connie Carter joined the Women’s Land Army.
Henry exhaled loudly, his mind grappling with this previously hidden chapter of his wife’s life. Disappointment and concern were jockeying for control of his face. “What do you think he wants?” Henry eventually asked.
“Not me, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Connie said. “He’s injured and on the run. If we can patch him up and get him on his way …”
Henry nodded. It seemed a sensible plan. And yet, his eyes wandered over the square to where the Home Guard was just finishing its meeting at the village hall. Elderly men in uniform were chatting and laughing as they dispersed homeward bound for the evening. But Connie preempted what Henry was thinking.
“I thought the same thing,” she said. “But he’s got a gun and I’ll bet he’s quicker than any of those old boys.”
Henry’s face fell even further. A gun? Suddenly he looked a good ten years older.
She didn’t want to endanger any of the men’s lives. He knew each and every one of them – old campaigners from the first war, doing their bit, feeling useful again.
While Connie thought about the Home Guard, Henry saw himself lying on the ground waiting for a rabbit. He stood, taking decisive action. “You go to Hoxley Manor and get the first-aid things. I’ll go and tell him that this is all we’re doing – and then he’d better be on his jolly way.”
Connie felt warmed by the slightly built, bookish man in front of her. He seemed to be rallying to her cause. Of course, the deserved rejection might come later, Connie thought. She didn’t want to trouble him any more or put him in danger. “No,” she said softly. “You stay here and have a drink. I’ll go to the manor and then get rid of him.”
“But-” Henry went to protest.
Connie shook her head. No buts. She wanted to sort this out herself. And that’s what she was going to do. She left the pub, not knowing whether Henry Jameson would still want her after tonight.
Chapter 7
By the time Connie Carter got to Hoxley Manor it was nearly dark. Iris Dawson was surprised to see her returning to the hospital. It wasn’t her day to be on standby. Surely she didn’t love the place that much? Connie tried to wave away her friend’s concerns. She just needed a couple of things, that’s all. Iris wondered if she could help in any way. Ever-helpful Iris.
“Keep your eyes peeled for Dr Channing. That’ll be a big help,” Connie said, moving fast away down the corridor. Before Iris could enquire further, Connie had gone into the shadows of the stately home. What was she doing?
Iris looked nervously around. This sounded risky. All the women felt nervous around Dr Channing, for a variety of reasons. But being the youngest Land Girl, Iris felt particularly awkward around him. It was his air of seriousness and authority which made Iris feel as if she’d always done something wrong. A stern father figure who
se sharp intellect made her feel inadequate about herself, especially about her inability to read or write. Whereas some of the others cooed about ‘dashing Dr Channing’, Iris just felt intimidated.
But she did what Connie asked and stayed in the corridor, keeping watch; a nervous sentry.
Connie darted past the main ward on the East Wing. Some nurses were working with Land Girls, trying to get the patients comfortable for the night. An airman with only one arm was mumbling loudly. Another was shouting for water. Connie spotted Dr Richard Channing as he tended the mumbling man’s bedside. Good, that’ll keep him occupied for a little while, thought Connie. She opened the door to the supply cupboard – unsure of exactly what she needed. Joyce would know. But Joyce wasn’t here. And despite seeing nurses stitch wounds on the wards, Connie had never really paid that much attention. She would look the other way or whistle a song to distract her while the gory stuff was happening. But here she was ‘Nurse Connie’: in at the deep end. She hoped that some of what she’d seen, or more accurately hadn’t seen, might just have somehow rubbed off on her. Connie filled her coat pockets with some dressings, and some thread and needles. Turning to go, she suddenly remembered the iodine tincture for sterilising the wound. She grabbed a small bottle and some cotton wool for luck and hastily made her way back into the corridor with her spoils.
Dr Channing was turning the corner! With reflexes like an alley cat, Connie threw herself back into the store room and waited for him to pass. When she could hear the sound of his brogues diminishing on the parquet flooring, Connie emerged again. She took a deep breath and went on her way, pausing only to say a rushed thank you to Iris on her way out. “What was that all about?” Iris asked.
“Needed a plaster,” Connie smiled, hoping charm would be enough to stop the questions.
Connie raced back to the village. It was dark now and she had to use the moon to illuminate her way as she raced along hedgerows and across fields, following the quickest route she knew.
But when she got back to the village square – her heart lurched in shock.
The pub was shut for the night. And Henry had gone.
With trepidation, Connie walked nervously towards the vicarage. She couldn’t hear any sounds from inside. Worrying that she might open the door to find Vince standing over Henry’s broken body, she lifted the latch. Or maybe they’d just be in deep conversation, with Vince telling Henry some unpleasant truths about his new wife. The hallway was quiet, the faces of the disciples staring blankly at her as she silently made her way to the living room.
The sight that greeted her felt like another queasy nightmare.
Henry was sitting, tight-lipped at the table, a cup of tea in front of him and the weight of the world on his shoulders. Vince Halliday was standing by the fire, in front of the mirror, smoking a cigarette. It looked like two friends having tea, discussing the issues of the day. And if it wasn’t for the bruise on Henry’s cheek, Connie would have been convinced that that was all that it was. Hang on, a bruise on Henry’s cheek!
“Henry! Are you all right?” Connie rushed to his side.
“He’s fine,” Vince growled. “Just needed a little lesson in respect, that’s all.”
“I told him to leave,” Henry stammered. “It’s my house. And he was here.”
“And I said that wasn’t a very Christian thing for a man of the cloth to say,” Vince laughed.
Connie knelt by Henry’s side and told him how sorry she was. In turn, he told her that he’d waited at the pub as it closed, but got a sudden rush of anger about staying away from his own home. It wasn’t right that he couldn’t go back. And besides, he worried about what the stranger in their house was doing.
Vince let them talk. He knew that he was in control here. Connie said that she had the things from the hospital. She could sort Vince out now and get him on his way. A paper-thin civility descended on the room as everyone played their role. Connie told Vince that she was ready to stitch his hand.
“I’m sorry I lamped him.” Vince flicked his dog end onto the fire. He crossed languidly to the table and pulled out a chair, sitting opposite a Henry who vehemently refused to make eye contact.
“Not me you should be apologising to, is it?” Connie spread the bandages, needles and cotton wool on the table.
Vince lay his thick arm on the table so that Connie could get to work. She smiled winningly, wondering inside how long it would take Vince to realise that she had absolutely no idea about what she was doing. She was guessing it wouldn’t take very long.
Connie threaded a needle. Even this activity took her some time. With each second seeming like a minute in the tense silence around the table, Connie struggled to get it right. She’d never been good at sewing, once darning a sock so that she couldn’t get her toes in it.
“Come on, Con. What’s going on?”
“The light ain’t that good.”
Finally, in this still and silent room, her shaking and sweating fingers managed to thread the needle. Hurrah! She took out the iodine tincture and doused it onto the cotton wool. Vince winced slightly as she cleaned his wound. At this point, she saw Henry close his eyes. It was almost as if this act of gentle washing seemed like an act of betrayal. Connie might as well have been tenderly stroking another man’s hair. She tried to make it look business-like and without tenderness and finished as quickly as she could. Then decisively, she crossed to the sideboard and returned with a tumbler and a whisky bottle. Vince looked questioningly.
“I ain’t got nothing to make it numb. So drink this, take the edge off.”
She slugged out a large measure. After a seconds’ consideration, he took it and gulped it down. “I could get used to this sort of medical treatment.” He nodded that he was ready.
Connie wished she could have a large whisky to blot out what she was about to do. She pushed the needle into the skin around Vince’s wound. He grimaced and a little spittle formed on his teeth, but he nodded for her to continue. Henry looked resolutely at the table throughout. It took Connie twenty minutes to stitch the deep wound closed – and it was the most haphazard bit of sewing that she’d ever seen in her life. Even worse than the sock. But finally it was done. She was shaking with exhaustion and breathing heavily as she put a fresh dressing on the wound. Then she fastened a bandage around his hand.
Vince poured himself another tumbler full of whisky and downed it.
“Thanks, Connie. Knew I could rely on you.”
Connie offered a tight smile, glancing at Henry out of the corner of her eye. He was avoiding eye contact; unreachable. Vince coughed and got unsteadily to his feet, flexing his injured hand.
“It’s dark now. I think I’ll stay.”
“But you can’t,” Connie stuttered. Henry let out an audible sigh, something between disappointment and anguish.
“Make me up a bed, Connie. I won’t ask a second time.” Vince glanced at Henry menacingly by way of emphasis, as he opened his jacket to reveal the handle of the pistol.
Connie’s throat went tight and her eyes moistened with fear. Dimly, she was aware of her flattened hands doing a desperate calming motion. She knew that Vince was enjoying the tension. The fear. How could this be happening? How could such a sliver of her dark past be here? After a long moment, Vince fastened his jacket, obscuring the gun. Henry staggered from his chair, any energy and vitality that he’d had earlier had vanished.
“I’ll help,” he said. “Make up the bed.”
Vince looked at the pair of them for a moment. Deciding that he’d broken their spirits enough, he nodded his consent and Henry and Connie went from the room. Vince listened to the sounds of their footsteps as they scampered upstairs. He poured himself another whisky and smiled to himself. A plan was forming. A plan that in his alcohol-hazy head seemed like a good idea.
Connie and Henry went into the spare room. It was a small musty box room with a sloping ceiling, its single window looking out onto Helmstead High Street. The curtains had been shut for we
eks and the wallpaper was a sedate pattern of tulip buds. The bed had been stripped since the Bishop had stayed a few months ago and they hadn’t had a visitor since. It was quite a leap from a stuffy man of the cloth to a brute with a gun. Connie fetched some clean sheets from the chest of drawers and she and her husband starting to make the bed in strained silence. Connie couldn’t stand it. She kept her voice low and asked:
“What did he do to you?”
“Hit me. He hit me,” Henry said angrily, embarrassed that he hadn’t been able to stop him or stand up to him. Embarrassed by having to admit it to his wife.
“For no reason?”
“What reason do people like him need?” Henry replied, tersely. Then he offered some explanation. “I marched in and I told him in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t welcome.”
“And?”
“He punched me in the stomach and then in the face. Not even a word. Not even-” Henry was clearly upset by this unexpected violent aggression. He didn’t come from a world where this sort of thing happened. Connie saw the anger, frustrated anger, welling up inside of him. “Why does this always happen?” The accusatory words were pinched and strained. His eyes flashing with annoyance and impotence. It hurt Connie to see him like this. She put out a hand to touch his, but he retracted his hand as if he’d touched a hot stove. That hurt her even more.
“I’ll get rid of him tomorrow,” Connie said, seeing the pain in his eyes. “I promise.”
Henry nodded in a non-committal way that made it clear that he didn’t believe her promises. Not after last time. Danny Sparks had nearly wrecked their lives. He’d nearly killed Connie and Finch.
“You said this sort of thing – you said it wouldn’t happen again.”
And with those damning words, Henry Jameson left the room. Connie sunk down onto the freshly made bed and felt her heart breaking.
As they tossed sleeplessly in their own bed that night, Connie tried to get Henry to say more about what he was feeling. She tried to tell him that she was sorry and that this wouldn’t be like when Danny came just before they got married. There were differences. Danny had wanted Connie to help him with a robbery. Vince was injured and she assumed he just wanted to put them through the wringer a bit before moving on.