Land Girls: The Homecoming

by Roland Moore

  “What, with the ‘Reverend’?” Vince risked a little snort of contempt.

  Connie’s arm had begun to lower slightly, but she brought it back up – the gun level with his face.

  “All right, don’t be hasty.” Vince offered reassuring, slow words. “I want you back. And when Henry disappeared, I thought it was my chance to be here for you. I wanted to show I cared for you. I wanted to help you through it. That’s all. I was making the best of it, for myself.”

  Connie squinted, trying to take this in. She was still desperately tired, but the adrenaline rushing around her body was keeping her going.

  “I won’t pretend that him going missing wasn’t good for me,” Vince said, softly. “But I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Liar,” Connie spat. “Mrs Gulliver saw you following Henry.”

  “He’d forgotten his Bible.”

  “What?”

  “I was chasing after him. But it was ‘cos he’d forgotten his Bible.”

  Could this be true? Connie tried to remember exactly what Mrs Gulliver had said. Did it fit with what Vince was trying to make her believe? Connie took a step forward, forcing him to fall into the armchair. The heat of the blazing fire was burning the back of Connie’s legs, but she didn’t feel it.

  The gun handle was wet with perspiration, so much so that it was becoming difficult to hold without slipping. She steadied it with her other hand, but Vince clocked the nervous look on her face.

  “Gets heavy, don’t it?” He smiled.

  “Be lighter without another one of the bullets,” Connie hissed.

  Vince nodded his approval at her threat. Then he glanced at his jacket, which was slumped over a dining chair, a dark oil slick. “Look, I’ve got my key. Thank you for that. So I’m just going to leave. I’ve got what I need to start again. If you don’t need me here.” He spoke slowly, as if trying to mesmerise Connie with his reasonable tone. “Question is – am I going alone?”

  There it was. Whether Vince had anything to do with Henry disappearing or not, there was the reason he’d stayed after getting his key. He’d wanted to win her back, and what better way than to be the shoulder for her to cry on? His blue eyes bored into her, a strand of his thick black hair had fallen over his face. He offered hidden promises of excitement and danger, a chance to feel alive.

  Am I going alone?

  A crossroads reached with an exhausted mind, unable to think straight. A sweat-soaked gun in the hand. One direction led back to London, to a life of late nights and petty crime and excitement. The other direction led to sedate Sundays, dusty books and gentleness. The choice wasn’t balanced, though. If Connie stayed in Helmstead, and if she could find Henry again, she’d have to see if she could repair her marriage. A lot of uncertainty. Vince’s way was more straightforward. They could be on their way back to London –

  Connie heard a piano playing in her mind. A jaunty tune. Henry finding the keys as he turned his boyish smile in her direction. She loved Henry. And as hard as it was to fit together some aspects of their personalities in their marriage, this was where she wanted to be.

  “The only question is – where’s my husband?” Connie said.

  “Come with me, Connie,” he said, his eyes still intent on hers. “What if he’s never coming back? You going to mope around here all your days like those sad old spinsters out there?”

  This unlocked something. Against her will, and unable to control it, Connie felt her body heaving, her shoulders rising as the choking wave of tears overwhelmed her. Stinging tears rolled down her cheeks, her vision blurring. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, the gun still held as tightly as she could manage.

  “Thing is, Vince. Even if he never comes back, our time is over.”

  “We were great together,” Vince pleaded. “Come on.”

  “I’m not coming with you.” Connie indicated the hallway and that Vince should go.

  Vince was surprised at this turn of events. She was letting him go? Alive? He wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He slid out from the armchair, Connie taking a step back to allow him up. Carefully he retrieved his jacket from the dining chair and put it on. There was a strange, expectant silence. Connie broke it as Vince reached the door to the hallway.

  “You can go if you want. But I want you to know one little thing.”

  Vince turned back to Connie, to find himself staring down the barrel of the gun. Connie looked composed, steely. The tears had stopped, replaced with a look of cold detachment.

  “If you leave here without telling me, I will shoot you.”

  “Told you, I don’t know.”

  Vince took a step towards the door.

  BOOM!

  Connie blew one of the paintings off the wall, inches from Vince’s shoulder. The frame of a picture of an autumn meadow shattered into splinters as the bullet hit it; the painting itself fluttering free like a canvas butterfly.

  Vince couldn’t hear, the gunshot temporarily deafening him. “Blimey!” A mix of surprise and fear tinged with a little anger.

  “Tell me,” Connie reiterated, levelling the gun. This time it wasn’t pointing at the wall, but at Vince’s head. “I’ve got nothing here without Henry. Nothing to lose. I will shoot you.”

  There was a long moment. It reminded Vince of the stand off on Barnes Common that had led him here. How could he get out of this one?

  “All right. But then you let me go?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’ll take you to him.”

  Connie’s heart suddenly lurched into her mouth. Vince had known what had happened to Henry. And now he was going to lead her to him. Her Henry. Henry was going to be back home, tucked into bed next to her, sharing dinners in front of the fire with her. She could make everything all right again. She could mend their marriage.

  But as Vince walked out of the door of the vicarage, he looked solemnly at her and uttered some words that broke her heart all over again. “Don’t expect him to be alive.”

  Chapter 18

  Full of nervous trepidation, Connie walked with Vince. They made their way through the village square and over the bridge past Roger Curran’s newspaper office. Soon they were trudging across the wet fields of long grass towards Gorley Woods, the moon the only illumination for their journey. Connie kept the gun at her side as Vince walked ahead. Neither of them spoke. But it was a certainty that they were both thinking the same thing. Would Henry be alive? And while Connie was desperate to know the answer for her future happiness, Vince’s interest was based purely on self-preservation. If Henry was dead, then the chances were he would be too.

  Finally Connie spoke. She needed some information. Something to go on.

  “Tell me what you did with him?”

  Vince seemed reluctant to speak, in case it hastened his demise.

  “I need to know.”

  “All right. One of those nights you were working at the hospital. Henry mentioned that the farm next to the French man’s cottage wasn’t occupied. That it hadn’t been for years. Henry was worried or something about the old guy having no neighbours if he needed help. So I got thinking it might be a good place to get Henry out the way for a while.”

  “So you could work on me?”

  “Lengths I’d go to, eh?”

  But Connie was in no mood for his rough-hued charms. She asked him curtly, “So what did you do to him?”

  “I knocked him off his bicycle. And then I locked him in an out house.”

  “Was he hurt?” Connie said.

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Was he hurt?” She realised she was gripping the pistol handle more tightly than ever; her knuckles almost popping with the strain.

  “No.” Vince wanted the questioning to stop. Truth was that he had no idea if Henry had been hurt by what he did, and no idea if he’d still be alive. He knew that he had to be ready for the moment, if it came, when Connie would try to shoot him.

  Vince rubbed his temple
with his bandaged hand, stopped briefly to work out which way to go and continued to lead. Connie felt the loathing in her body for this man increase ten-fold. She had to stop her finger skating over the trigger.

  As they reached the edge of the field, and the clouds hung like purple cotton wool in the darkening sky, Vince stepped onto the stony path that led to Gorley Woods. Connie could see the fields of Pasture Farm to the right of her, the distant cosy lights of the farmhouse where the girls might be sitting round the kitchen table having a late-night drink and a laugh together. She felt so alone. Oh what she’d have given for the girls from the farm to come to rally to her aid; all of them marching to Gorley Woods together, their reassuring smiles and support. But she was on her own, in the fading light, with a dangerous man, about to find out if her husband was dead or alive.

  Vince trudged on, his city shoes crunching on the stone path. Suddenly Connie spotted someone. It was a lone figure walking from Pasture Farm, directly over the field, heading straight for her. At first, she wondered if her wish had come true. Connie stared, trying to focus on the figure. Was it just a scarecrow? No, it was definitely moving. Moving towards them. It was impossible to see much detail in the dying light. But finally, squinting, Connie made out one detail in the moonlight. The figure was wearing a cloche hat. The figure was Glory Wayland.

  Vince was up ahead of Connie and hadn’t seen what she was looking at. But now he turned round. Seeing that she was staring at the field, he looked too. Bemused, he noticed the figure moving across the fields towards them.

  “Who’s that?”

  And then, as the glimmer of recognition hit his brain, he looked worried.

  “Glory?” he almost mouthed. “No, that’s not possible.”

  It must be a mirage. A trick of the light. There was no way that Glory Wayland could be here. No way on earth. Vince started to back away, suddenly fearful. “It can’t be. It can’t be.” His feet scraped the verge on the other side of the path, and Vince had to steady himself to stop himself from falling over. The thin, gangly woman was getting nearer to the fence that bordered Pasture Farm. Nearer to the stile that meant she could climb over.

  “This can’t be happening!” Vince Halliday was spooked. Ghosts didn’t exist, and yet here was the proof in front of his own eyes. A woman who was dead, moving across a field, in a place where she would never be, coming to get him.

  It was too much. He didn’t care that Connie had a gun any more.

  He stumbled backwards and started to run. Connie was surprised by the reaction. Vince scrambled back over the fence into the field with the long grass and he bolted for it, falling several times in his haste. Connie contemplated stopping him, but she decided that it would be easier with him gone. She knew where to go now. So Connie looked back towards Pasture Farm, where Glory Wayland had also started to run. The thin girl leaped over the stile and landed hard, but still upright, on the stone path. Connie grabbed her arm, stopping her.

  “Wait a minute. What are you doing?”

  Glory stared Connie in the eyes. She pointed back towards Pasture Farm and then shook her head, trying to communicate that things didn’t work out there. Connie realised that Glory was holding the scalpel, the metal blade glinting in the fading light.

  “Why aren’t you at the farm?”

  Glory turned her head, and Connie could see the glitter of tears welling in her eyes.

  “You can’t go after Vince now,” Connie said, looking into the distance. Connie couldn’t see any sign of him. “Once he gets his wits back, he’ll realise that you’re no ghost, and he’ll wait to jump you or something. Do you want to take that risk?”

  Glory was torn.

  “Besides, I want you to come with me.” Connie’s words were vulnerable and heartfelt. “Oh, why aren’t you in the farm?”

  Glory pushed the scalpel into her pocket and took out her battered notebook. She wrote quickly and with small, neat lettering. Then she turned the page to Connie, who angled it to the moon to read it. “Dolores didn’t want me to stay.”

  Connie handed the pad back to Gloria. “Come with me. I’ll make sure you’re all right. Yeah?”

  Glory took one final look at the field into which Vince had disappeared. And then she followed Connie Carter along the dirt track, past the foreboding black shadows of Gorley Woods and into the night.

  Connie found the edge of the farm that bordered Dr Beauchamp’s cottage. And then she found a single building on its perimeter. The outbuilding was sunken into the corner of a field of brambles, the large sandstone blocks of its walls capped with a flat stone roof. Tiny slots in the walls acted as windows, making it resemble a dilapidated pill box rather than a storage area. It looked as though it had been abandoned for years. Connie forgot the name of the farm, but she knew that Finch had spoken about it once or twice. He used to bring his son, Billy, to the deserted land so they could practise using a shotgun. The decaying keep-out signs and the wrecked barbed wire on the gates offered no deterrent to Frederick Finch as he trained his young lad in the art of blowing holes in trees.

  Connie walked fast along the hedgerow to where part of the fence had collapsed. She put the pistol into her belt and hopped over into the long, damp grass of the ghost farm. Glory silently followed. And although Connie could hear herself panting, she registered, in an oddly surreal moment, that Glory made no such noise.

  The women reached the outbuilding.

  “It must be this one.” Connie’s voice faltered. She fought to clear her throat, trying to find some volume. “Henry?” she shouted, her voice shrill, scared in the cold night air. Glory listened. They were deathly silent as they waited for a response. But there was no reply.

  “Henry? It’s me, Connie.” Again, nothing.

  The door of the outbuilding was sealed with a sturdy bolt but no padlock. With trepidation, Connie slid the rusting bolt back, her shaking fingers finding it hard to push against the peaks of rust in the carriage. She pulled the door towards her; its metal creaking in protest after decades of inactivity. With it open, frantically her eyes fought to see in the gloom. There were sacks of ancient oats, overgrown with weeds. Plant pots were stacked up in one corner. An old rake without a handle was near the door. To her surprise, the moon managed to illuminate some of the inside of the outbuilding thanks to a small hole in the roof. It was from this light source that Connie saw something that made her heart lurch in her chest.

  Henry’s hand, the wedding ring on his finger.

  His still, unmoving hand.

  He was lying on the floor, sprawled out, lifeless.

  Connie scurried to his side and tried to rouse him. “Henry. It’s me, Connie. Henry! Henry!” But he didn’t move. His body was cold to the touch. Turning him over, she saw that his lips were dry and cracked, canyons of dehydration radiating from his bleached mouth. She bent her ear next to him to feel for breath. Nothing. Connie started to shudder, her body moving with a rhythmic rocking motion as she took in the dreadful realisation that Henry was dead.

  “No, this can’t be happening. No!”

  Connie felt Glory’s hand on her shoulder. Comforting. The girl bent down beside her and although Connie was turned away, she gave her an awkward hug. There was a wailing sound and Connie was dimly aware that she was the one making the noise, as she howled into the night. Glory held her tight, turning her slowly away from the body, shielding her pain. And as Glory rocked her amid the wailing, Connie noticed something about Henry’s pullover.

  It had moved.

  Slightly, but it had moved. Or was it just her own movement disturbing it?

  “Henry?” Connie peered more closely. No, it was true, the fabric on Henry’s chest was moving, with the faintest tremor, up and down. A glimmer of life. It was a fragile but significant sign. When she was sure of what she was seeing, Connie seized on this and rested her head gently against her husband. She could feel the faintest heartbeat.

  Henry Jameson was alive!

  “Henry!” Now her cry was
full of desperate hope.

  But Connie knew from her work at Hoxley Manor hospital that he didn’t have long left. His breathing was shallow and weak; he was too cold to survive much longer. He needed medical attention urgently. Connie’s brain tried to work out what to do. She could tell Glory where to go, how to get to Hoxley Manor. But the girl couldn’t speak and no one knew her there. That would just delay things.

  At another crossroads, Connie made a decision.

  “Stay with him, yeah? I’ll go to get a doctor.”

  Glory nodded.

  And then Connie bent close to her husband’s ear and whispered, “I love you.”

  Then Connie Carter rushed off into the night, in a headlong dash towards the dirt track. But as she reached the perimeter of the abandoned farm, she tripped over some tangled metal, hitting the ground with a thump. Connie pulled herself to her feet, feeling a twinge of pain in her ankle.

  That’s all she needed. She rubbed her ankle, quickly realising that, thankfully, it wasn’t broken.

  But then she realised that it wasn’t just a heap of metal that had tripped her. It was a bicycle. Henry’s bicycle.

  Connie pulled the bicycle up out of the grass and mounted it, wondering whether it was quicker to ride to Hoxley Manor for a doctor or go to Helmstead to get Wally Morgan. She struck Wally off her list of medical hopefuls. He would probably be drunk at this time of night. But Hoxley Manor was about twenty minutes away. It might be nearly an hour before she could get Channing or someone here. That might be too long. More crossroads.

  Still, that seemed her only option.

  But then Connie happened to glance the other way, behind her. And in the distance, against the dark barrier of Gorley Woods, was Dr Beauchamp’s cottage. A doctor. Two minutes away. And true, he might not be awake or capable of helping, but it was a risk she had to take. Connie cycled at full speed. When she reached the cottage, she dumped the bicycle in his garden and hammered on his front door.

  “Please don’t let him be a doctor of literature or nothing.” Connie realised that she had no idea if he was a medical doctor. She prayed as she heard shuffling from the other side of the door. Dr Beauchamp opened the door, small and gnarled like a hedgehog that had been woken from hibernation. Pushing his half-moon spectacles nearer his eyes, he tried to focus on the anxious young woman in front of him, no idea who she was.