Land Girls: The Homecoming

by Roland Moore

  “Look, you don’t have to go back,” Connie said quietly.

  “I have to,” Margaret said. The truth was, she hoped that Michael and Vera might have calmed down by now. Although she had a friend in Brinford, she couldn’t rely on staying with her family for more than a day or so. The truth was that she had nowhere to go other than back to Jessop’s Cottage. So her only hope would be that things wouldn’t be too bad on her return and that she’d only have to spend a couple of nights under the stairs.

  “Well, I’ll come back with you, then. Check everything is all right,” Connie said, moving towards the door.

  She glanced at her husband. Usually he would make a move towards her, to kiss her goodbye. But today he stood with his back to her and Margaret as he fussed with the breakfast things. Connie made no effort to kiss him first. She went into the hallway, not seeing Henry turn and look forlornly at his departing wife. He watched as Margaret and Connie walked down the path and into the high street.

  They walked through the overgrown fields to the south of Helmstead, their legs swish-swishing through the dewy long grass. Early-morning crows looking for breakfast were disturbed by these unexpected arrivals and they flew to the skies until it was safe to return. Connie wondered what was going on. She remembered back to the train crash when Margaret had blurted out that the woman she was with wasn’t her mother. And now it seemed – from last night – that this Michael might not be her father either. So who were they? Relatives who had taken the young girl in? Perhaps an aunt and an uncle? And why did Michael get as jittery as Vince at any visitors coming to the door?

  Connie suspected that she might find out some of the answers very soon, as the small cottage that Margaret called home came into view. Amid a small patchwork of neatly tended vegetable fields, the compact building looked dark and empty. It was only just gone six in the morning and Connie asked if Vera and Michael might still be asleep.

  “Michael will be up. He goes to work on his fields early,” Margaret said.

  “He seems to spend a lot of time tending them,” Connie noted, taking in the immaculate rows of vegetables. “He should be a Land Girl.”

  Margaret laughed. Connie felt a little joy at seeing such a reaction in the young girl. She should be laughing all the time, not looking scared and cowed as if some great weight was on her shoulders. There should be a light in her eyes.

  Before they got any closer to the house, Connie stopped Margaret. Although she didn’t want to pry, she had to know what she was walking into and, more importantly, what Margaret wanted her to do and say once they were inside.

  “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Funny, never told anyone,” Margaret said, glancing with foreboding at the cottage.

  “Only tell me if you feel you want to,” Connie encouraged. “But a problem shared and all that …”

  “They’re not my parents. Don’t get me wrong, they’re not bad people –”

  “But they don’t treat you exactly right, do they?” Connie interjected.

  “But they took me in. They were good like that.” And Margaret told Connie about what had happened three years ago. “I was six years old and living with Mum in the East End. She was called Ginny. One day, like on lots of days, there had been a bombing raid. A lot of buildings had been flattened by the German planes.”

  Tears welled in the young girl’s eyes and she batted them away with the back of her hand.

  “Only tell me if you want to.”

  “I’m all right.” Margaret caught her breath. “The first I knew something was wrong was when Mum didn’t come to school to pick me up. It got later and later – and I ended up waiting in a classroom with one of my teachers. We were both watching the clock.”

  “And what happened?”

  “After a long time, Vera turned up and told the teachers that she was here to collect me. She told me the news. My mum had died,” Margaret said.

  “So sorry,” Connie replied.

  “She worked lunchtimes in the Grey Horse on Talbot Street. Did you know it?”

  “I didn’t know every place in the East End,” Connie answered, softly.

  “My mum would fetch glasses and pour pints. But the pub had been flattened by a German bomb.”

  The little girl found the words choking in her throat. “So you see –” She struggled on. “I owe Vera and Michael. And if they want me to pretend then that’s what I’ve got to do, isn’t it?”

  Connie found this phrase odd. “Pretend? Pretend what?”

  “That they are my mum and dad.”

  “Why do they do that? They’re not your mum and dad.”

  Margaret explained that they hadn’t adopted her properly, and said that if she mentioned anything to outsiders then it might mean she would be taken away to a children’s home. “Michael said I’d have to go if people found out.”

  This sounded reasonable to Connie. She knew all about the children’s homes in the East End. And she could understand Margaret’s reluctance to rock the boat with her current guardians for fear of ending up in a crowded, noisy dormitory, where belongings didn’t belong and washing water was never hot. But still something didn’t feel right about this whole set up, the whole story that Margaret had told. Half-formed questions were swirling around Connie’s mind – but the early hour meant that her brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders, connections weren’t being made. There was one specific thing that was bugging her about Margaret’s story, but Connie couldn’t quite catch hold of it; like chasing a sprite through a dark forest.

  As she searched for the source of her unease, she suddenly realised that two figures were coming into view, walking tentatively towards them, as if Connie and Margaret might scatter like rabbits if they rushed forward.

  Connie recognised the woman from the day on the train. Vera Sawyer. And she didn’t need it spelling out that the tall, grim-faced man next to her was probably her husband, Michael Sawyer. Margaret’s ‘parents’.

  The rain lashed down as the bicycle tottered along the dirt track. Henry Jameson realised that he’d been gnawing at his bottom lip since he’d left the vicarage and throughout the entire cycle journey to Pasture Farm. It was red and sore by the time he stopped and parked his bicycle near the old milking sheds. Henry had been working himself up, his mind continually spinning with the casual betrayal he still felt. Connie had gone to Vince – a real man – when there was the knock at the door. Vince would protect her. Did she feel Henry wasn’t capable of being a real man? And yet, just before they got married, Henry had knocked Danny Sparks out to save Connie. That was a heroic act. One punch which had surprised everyone. Why didn’t Connie remember that in her primal reaction to danger?

  Henry liked to think of man as a higher animal, but reading all the books in the world didn’t count when it came to facing danger. And that’s why Connie had, perhaps without conscious thought, turned to the strongest man in the room.

  He marched with determination into the kitchen of Pasture Farm, where a surprised Finch was eating a big plate of fried eggs and swilling it down with a large mug of tea. Esther was at the sink cutting some bread and he could hear Joyce singing elsewhere in the house.

  “’Enry?” Finch said, mid-egg. “You’re looking anxious. Not come to give us the last rites, have you?”

  “Last wrongs in your case,” Esther chuckled.

  “What does that even mean?” Finch asked, a little irked. He loved a joke as much as the next man, but only if he could understand it.

  “I’m here for – business,” Henry stated, awkwardly adding emphasis on the last word, hoping that Finch would know what he meant.

  Finch looked confused. But Esther knew that it would be easier if she wasn’t there. “I’ll call the girls. Give you a moment for your – business.” Esther wiped her hands on her apron and made herself scarce. “Men,” she mumbled as she disappeared.

  Finch waited for the coast to be clear and turned to Henry with a conspiratorial air.

>   “You want some of my playing cards, eh?” Finch said.

  “No,” said a thrown Henry. “What playing cards?”

  “Mucky ones.” Finch giggled. “They’ve got normal hearts and clubs and stuff on one side. But on the other, they’ve got nude –”

  “No. I’m not here for that.”

  Finch was already doing an unseemly mime of a woman with big breasts. He stopped abruptly.

  “I wanted to go hunting again.” Henry said. “I think I can do it this time.”

  “Well, I can’t spare the time this morning, Reverend,” Finch said, scooping up some egg white on his fork. “Not being off. Just we’ve got the grain truck coming and it’ll be all hands on deck.”

  “Yes, Connie mentioned that,” Henry replied, pondering the problem as if it was a Sherlock Holmes mystery. He had hoped that all his lip-gnawing on the journey had resulted in a fool-proof plan. Now, confronted with the lazy and unpredictable Frederick Finch, he wasn’t so sure that things would be as easy to manipulate as he’d hoped.

  “You could always go on your own?” Finch offered.

  Bingo, thought Henry, but tried not to let his face betray him.

  “Yes, yes. I could, couldn’t I?”

  “And see how many bunnies you can catch without the master to guide you, heh heh.”

  “Well, if I get one, I’ll feel blessed.”

  “Yeah, take what you need, Henry,” Finch said, downing his tea.

  And now the big one. Henry had thought about this question. About how to phrase it so it sounded as casual as possible, and not the big flashing red light he dreaded it would be.

  “Could I borrow the gun?” Henry asked, putting on his clueless face.

  Finch laughed. “I told you, you’ll have nothing left to eat if you use that.”

  “It’s just I didn’t really get on with the traps.”

  “Your trouble was a lack of patience, Reverend. That and a clod-hopping clumsiness. And the fact that you’d chatter on all the time.”

  “Yes, well. Reasons enough to see that I need a faster method of dispatch,” Henry said, near to closing the deal.

  “All right,” Finch said, rubbing his mouth clean with the back of his sleeve. “But don’t come running to me if you break your teeth on buck shot. Or blow your foot off. Heh, you wouldn’t be running anywhere then, would you, eh? And keep it as long as you need. I’ve got a spare.”

  Henry’s clueless act had worked. He tried not to let his face betray him, and bit his lip again. This time to stop himself from smiling.

  Finch told him that the gun was in the milking shed, so Henry left the kitchen and crossed the yard to get it.

  A stray chicken was pecking around the empty milk churns in the shed. It fluttered out of the way as Henry passed. Early-morning sun was pushing through the gaps in the slats like golden searchlights as Henry found the old Purdey. It was open and Henry could see that both barrels were empty. Henry picked up a small bag containing three or four shells. He placed them in his pocket. Then he felt the coolness of the metal barrels, the worn walnut woodwork. How could something so beautiful be so deadly? Henry started to get second thoughts. Could he do this? He even wondered what he intended to do with it. Surely he wasn’t going to actually shoot Vince Halliday?

  “You there!” the man whom Connie assumed was Michael Sawyer barked. “What are you doing on my land?”

  “She’s got our Margaret with her,” Vera added, as if Michael could have failed to notice.

  As they got closer, Connie stood her ground. She was surprised when Margaret took a step behind her, so that although the girl wasn’t exactly hiding, she was partially shielded by Connie.

  “I ain’t got your Margaret,” Connie said, sticking up for herself. “She ran off ‘cos she was scared and I’ve brought her back. That’s all.”

  Vera gave Connie a disdainful look before bending towards the little girl. “It’s the woman from the train crash. She saved us,” Vera said to Michael. His scowl grew in intensity as he stared at Connie. “They shouldn’t have been on that flaming train.”

  “No need to thank me,” Connie said, under her breath.

  “Why did you run to this whore?” Michael asked Margaret.

  “Here! That’s a bit strong!” Connie snapped back. “I saved their bacon back at the train, and this is the thanks I get. Blooming marvellous.”

  Margaret was cowering, her sad eyes hoping that the adults in her life would stop shouting at one another. Vera glanced at Michael, who said nothing, his face unreadable. He was standing a few feet back from the action, ever the onlooker, partially there.

  “You going to let him talk to me like that?” Connie snapped at Vera.

  “We’ll take her now,” Vera said, firmly.

  “I’ll see her indoors, if you don’t mind,” Connie said, moving towards the cottage – uninvited – carrying Margaret’s small case. She wanted to check everything would be all right for the young girl. Check it was safe to leave her here. There was something still nagging at Connie’s mind. Some question struggling to form fully. Margaret’s mother had worked as a bar maid at the Grey Horse in Talbot Street. Like a lot of the East-End, it was an area full of back-to-back housing and rooms to rent crammed in more tightly than one of Finch’s chicken runs. Thoughts tried to reach clarity. The pub. Talbot Street. Vera went to the school to break the news. Margaret waiting in the classroom. But –

  Annoyingly out of reach, Connie put it out of her head and tried to focus as she neared the front of the cottage. She was aware that Margaret was some yards behind her and that Vera and Michael were bringing up the rear.

  “Go inside then,” Vera shouted from behind. Connie pushed open the front door of Jessop’s Cottage and stepped cautiously over the threshold. Margaret followed her inside. The decor was old-fashioned – in keeping with the Edwardian look of the furniture inside: heavy mahogany table with chairs padded with discreet floral patterns; a dark wood upright piano with heavy brass candle holders; lace doilies on the sideboard. The place had a feeling of late middle age – the presence of a young child hadn’t had any effect on the strange entropy of this dwelling. There were no children’s drawings on the walls, no toys or books scattered around the place. It was as if Margaret hadn’t been allowed to flourish here. Or that she had been contained in some way. No roots of childhood had spread here.

  “Thank you for bringing her home,” Vera said, with as much civility as she could manage. She was clearly saying that it was time to go now. There would be no tea offered here. In fact, Vera seemed nervous now that she was inside the house, a woman unused to this sort of interaction. Visitors obviously never came here. She was aware that Michael had moved to the far window of the room, furthest from the rest of them. He was looking out to the fields. Connie wondered why he kept himself apart. Was he hiding something?

  She felt a dark cloud of awkwardness and unease spreading invisibly over the furniture, filling the space as Vera’s comment hung in the air. Connie knew she had to say something. Say something decisive. Something that would make a difference.

  What came out of her mouth surprised everyone. Not least of all Connie Carter herself.

  “Well, all right. But I want you to know I’m watching you.”

  Watching? What was she thinking? Where did that come from?

  But the words had an instant effect. Michael looked at Connie and then to his wife. A flash of concern. It seemed the last thing he wanted was anyone watching. He smiled at Connie – his face looking confused, perhaps fearful. The glisten of nervous perspiration filled his top lip.

  “There’s no need for anyone to overreact,” he said, as calmly as he could manage.

  “I need to know she’s going to be fine,” Connie said, gesturing toward the small girl. Connie knew that Margaret had been so terrified that she had run away, through the dark forests nearby, in a desperate bid to escape. She needed to know that this place would be safe.

  “You don’t need to tell u
s how to raise our own –” Vera snapped, before Michael cut her off.

  “We assure you that she will be fine.” He smiled. “Go to your room please, Margaret.”

  Connie’s mind was racing, looking for the missing piece of the jigsaw.

  Margaret threw one last look at Connie, picked up her small suitcase of belongings and trotted obediently upstairs.

  “It was a shock seeing the story – the picture of Margaret and you – in the newspaper. That’s all,” Michael said evenly. “It rather threw me, I must say. But I’m calmer about the whole matter now.”

  “And you going to apologise for calling me a whore?”

  Michael looked confused, as if he’d never said it. Vera gave a small nod of encouragement. It would end this encounter more quickly if he apologised. “I’m sorry for calling you that.”

  Connie felt uneasy about the brittle calmness of his tone.

  But as she watched Margaret disappear, Connie suddenly realised what was bugging her. The one thing about Margaret’s story that didn’t sit right. The story of how she lost her mother in the destruction of the Grey Horse on Talbot Street. The nagging question finally formed clearly in her mind for the first time, like a lighthouse shining through a sea fog. It came through with red flashing lights and a siren honking its presence.

  How had Vera Sawyer known who Margaret’s mother was?

  For her to go to the school to break the awful news of her death, Vera Sawyer must have known both Margaret and Ginny. But how? Were they family friends? Did they know each other from Sunday school or something? Neighbours? Connie needed to find out. It was bugging her.

  “Margaret told me what happened back in the East End,” Connie said.

  Vera and Michael shared a look of concern and then, Connie, after letting it hang in the air for maximum effect, continued, “She told me how you went to the school. How you broke the news about her mother dying.”

  “The poor woman,” Michael added. Vera was looking anxious, wondering where this was going. Why couldn’t this infernal woman in the Land Army uniform just disappear? “My wife and I took her in. We’ve done everything we could for that girl to avoid her living in an orphanage. We moved to the country, sent her to school –”