The Fleethaven Trilogy

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘Well, I’ll find out. One day I’ll find out everything. As for now – I’m going away. You wanted me gone four years ago, so now you’ll get your wish. I’m going!’

  Suddenly the fight seemed to drain out of her mother and she sat down heavily on a chair, leaned her elbows on the kitchen table and dropped her head into her hands. ‘You don’t have to go, Katie. Not now.’

  ‘Oh yes, I do,’ Kate leaned towards her mother as if to drive the hurtful shaft in harder. ‘I can’t stay here – seeing him every day. Not the way we feel about each other. Mother – we’re in love. We want – wanted . . .’ her voice broke a little as deliberately she changed the tense, ‘to get married.’

  Esther gave a soft groan. ‘I wouldn’t have had this happen to you – or Danny – for the world. I tried, really I did, in the only way I could think of to keep you apart. But the harder I tried, the more you seemed drawn to each other . . .’ She broke off, raised her head and looked straight at Kate, a sudden urgency in her tone. ‘He – he hasn’t – touched you, has he?’

  There was silence in the kitchen except for the ticking clock and the hissing of the red-hot wood in the grate as Esther waited for the answer that was so important to her, meant everything to her.

  Kate stared back at her mother, holding her breath. She had it in her power at this moment to wound her mother deeply; to plunge a knife into her heart in retaliation for the hurt she and Danny were feeling; to punish Esther for the actions of her youth which had brought about this tragedy.

  She opened her mouth to speak, to say, ‘Yes, yes, yes, he’s touched me! We’ve lain together. We’re man and wife in all but name . . .’ But she couldn’t do it. All the years of love that lay between Kate and her mother, all the values that Esther had instilled into her daughter and Kate’s own natural, inborn honesty, would not allow her to tell such a dreadful lie. Slowly, Kate let out the breath she was holding and, with it, some of the resentment against her mother. After all, she had not been solely responsible either for what had happened years ago or for keeping it secret. Danny had been kept in ignorance too. Yet Kate could not blame Beth Eland so much; she had more to risk by telling her son the true circumstances of his birth. She must have feared losing his respect, perhaps even his love.

  So, although shreds of resentment against her mother still remained for she believed Esther could, and should, have told her the truth years ago, now Kate said heavily, ‘No, Mam. We haven’t – done anything.’

  ‘Thank the Lord!’ Esther murmured.

  Then, as Kate added, ‘But I have to go away, Mam. At least, for a while,’ all Esther could reply sadly, was, ‘Kate, oh, Katie.’

  That night as Kate lay in bed, her knees pulled up to her chin, she cradled the whelk shell in her hand.

  It was all she had left of Danny; and all she would ever have.

  She gave a sob into the darkness as she remembered suddenly, and tears trickled down her cheeks.

  Tomorrow was her birthday.

  Part Two

  Seventeen

  SEPTEMBER, 1939

  ‘War! Oh no! Not again. Not another one.’

  Kate watched in amazement as her mother stood in the middle of the yard, staring at her husband and wringing her hands in agitation. She could not remember having ever seen her so distressed. Angry, yes, many times, but the sight of tears in her mother’s green eyes shocked Kate.

  Then, at Esther’s next words, Kate understood. Her mother had rushed towards Jonathan and was grasping his shoulders, looking up into his face, her eyes wide and afraid. ‘You won’t go this time, will you?’

  Of course! That was it. Kate felt a moment’s pity for her mother, usually so strong and sure. For her to be so obviously frightened spoke volumes about the seriousness of the situation.

  Jonathan put his arms about his wife and held her close. ‘I shouldn’t think so, my dear. I’ll probably be too old now.’

  Esther was clinging to him. ‘You can’t go – not again. I couldn’t bear it. It’ll be bad enough all the young fellers having to go . . .’

  Now fear clutched at Kate. Feeling sick, she turned away and walked out of the yard and across the lane to the dunes. Under the elder trees it was shady, the breeze rustling the leaves above her. She slipped off her shoes; the sand was cool beneath her feet. The prickly buckthorn bushes were laden with orange berries, bright splashes of colour against the silvery green leaves.

  Kate climbed the dune and came out on the top above the trees. She stood and looked about her, her glance sweeping the land all around. It was so peaceful; the whispering of the leaves, the trilling song of a soaring skylark, the sudden cry of a gull and the soft splash of the sea were the only sounds to break an absolute quiet.

  It seemed strange to be home again. She had been away for almost nine years; nine long years in which so much had happened and yet, perversely, nothing had changed. She had come home frequently; not so much at first when she had been trying to put time and distance between herself and Danny. But recently she had come back to Fleethaven Point more and more until, with war seeming inevitable, she had made the decision to come home.

  When she and Danny had learnt why they could never marry, Kate had gone to Lincoln. It seemed ironic, and yet somehow fitting, that she should go back to the place where her mother had tried to send her once before, and where she had been so miserable. She was wretchedly unhappy again, though it was not, she acknowledged, the fault of the beautiful city where she tried to make her home and build a new life. She found comfort in the vast interior of the cathedral and a melancholy catharsis in wandering the streets throbbing with people; yet she felt she was entirely alone. Nor was it the fault of the kindly people who gave her a home; the Godfreys.

  At first, Kate had intended to stay only briefly in the small room that had once been her stepfather’s in their terraced family home. But an affinity and a friendship sprang up between Peggy Godfrey and the young, unhappy Kate, despite the sixteen years or so between them. Whether her stepfather had told them the circumstances, Kate never knew, but the Godfreys never pried into what had caused Kate’s sadness and were gently considerate and made her welcome; indeed they treated her as another daughter. The weeks grew into months and although at first she made tentative efforts to find herself other lodgings, she could see that the Godfreys’ desire for her to stay with them was genuine. She found work in the sewing room of the store where Peggy worked and during the first two years, she returned to Fleethaven Point only twice. She did not see Danny then, but on her third visit, they met accidentally in the lane.

  In two years they had changed little in outward appearance, but in their eyes was the sadness they shared.

  ‘You’re thinner, Katie,’ he had said softly, his brown eyes searching her face.

  ‘You’re – not laughing so much,’ she’d said.

  There had been silence between them as they had stared at one another, each reliving the last time they had been together; that dreadful day.

  Then Danny had taken a deep breath. ‘We’ve got to come to terms with it, Katie. Learn to live with it. I dun’t want you staying away from here just to avoid seeing me.’

  ‘I don’t know which is worse, Danny,’ she murmured, ‘seeing you – or not seeing you.’

  ‘I know. I’ve done a lot of thinking while you’ve been away. We can’t ever marry . . .’ Although there was a wealth of sadness in his tone, there was also a new strength as if the cruel blow had toughened him into manhood. ‘But, you know, maybe we have a love far greater even than that. The ties of brother and sister, blood ties, can be even stronger and deeper.’

  She listened in silence to his reasoned words, knowing instinctively what torment, what heart-searching, had gone into reaching this sensible acceptance. The hurt was still as deep, but the pain was not so intense. In the two years, Danny had not stopped loving her, but had wrestled with how they might salvage a different kind of love from the wreckage.

  So Kate had taken her le
ad from him, and although she had stayed in Lincoln, she had come home to Fleethaven more often. Little by little the agony eased as they drew strength from each other.

  And down the years, Danny’s words to her on that fateful day at the end of the Spit were locked within her heart: ‘They can’t stop us loving each other. Not ever, Katie, not ever!’

  Now, nine years on, standing on top of the sand-dune, drinking in the sight of the marsh spread before her, Kate was a very different young woman from the distraught girl of eighteen. She had held a responsible position in her work and from that had gained self-confidence. In the Godfreys’ home, she had been as happy as it was possible for her to be and she had grown to love their city. But always her heart lay at Fleethaven Point.

  How could she ever have thought she could leave this place for good, she thought now. She took a deep, satisfying breath of the fresh, clean air, closed her eyes for a moment and held her face up to the breeze as it ruffled her carefully styled, city hairstyle. Opening her eyes again, she gave a little laugh of exultation and ran down the grassy slope and across the marsh to the beach. She walked at the water’s edge, scuffing her toes through the shingle, paddling in the frothy edges of the encroaching waves and gazing across the wide expanse of grey water half expecting to see enemy ships already lying off shore.

  This place was in her blood. Its tranquillity enveloped her and welcomed her home. How can we possibly be at war, she thought.

  Then, distantly, she heard the rising wail of a siren.

  *

  ‘Danny, you won’t have to go, will you?’

  She had been waiting for him that evening at the junction where the lane leading westwards to the Grange joined the coast road. He came pedalling towards her on his bicycle, the sound of his whistling reaching her long before he did. When he saw her, he took his feet off the pedals and scuffed his boots along the road to slow down.

  ‘Haven’t you got those brakes mended yet?’ she scolded as he wobbled to a halt, speaking to him as easily and as naturally as if they had seen each other earlier that day and not several weeks ago.

  He grinned sheepishly at her. ‘Nope – it dun’t matter round here. No hills, a’ there?’ He paused and then added, ‘You home for the weekend?’

  She shook her head. ‘No – I’m back for good.’

  ‘Not afore time neither. You’re not a city lass. You dress nice, I’ll grant you that . . .’

  ‘Oh thank you, kind sir.’ She bobbed a mocking curtsy.

  ‘But you’re too pale – and too thin.’

  Now she laughed. ‘Well, if I can’t get my old job back in town, I’ll be working on the land, so I’ll soon end up as leathery-looking as you.’

  Then the teasing stopped; the look that passed between them saying that they both knew what the other was thinking. Without the need for explanation, it was then she asked, ‘Danny, you won’t have to go, will you?’

  His face sobered, the grin fading. ‘Farming’s what they call a reserved occupation . . .’ He hesitated. She held her breath, knowing very well what was coming. ‘But I – I might want to go, Katie.’

  She let out her breath slowly in a deep sigh. She might have known. Someone like Danny wouldn’t want to be thought a coward. Not Danny.

  She was watching him, seeing, suddenly, the changes the last nine years had wrought in him. He, too, was thinner in the face, yet his shoulders and chest were if anything even broader and more muscular than ever. Men of his age, she thought, were usually married with two or three little ones. But then, she thought wryly, so were young women of her age!

  Neither of them had found a partner. There had been one or two young men in Lincoln who had asked Kate out and sometimes she had gone. But there had never been a second meeting. Either she had politely refused, or a further invitation had not been forthcoming. Perhaps the young men were vaguely aware that they were being compared with the ghost of a love from the past.

  As for Danny, he didn’t seem interested in any of the young women in the district. He was now Squire Marshall’s farm bailiff, well liked and well respected by all those under him, and he still acted as the ailing Squire’s personal chauffeur when the old man needed to go anywhere, though gout and increasing infirmity confined the Squire more and more to his home. Mrs Marshall had died in the winter of 1932 and the Squire lived alone with only a few servants to care for him. His son, Arthur, lived in London, taking no interest in the affairs of the small estate and visiting only rarely.

  ‘He’s doing very well,’ the Squire would tell anyone who would listen. ‘Something in the City, you know. A wonderful career . . .’ Then the old man’s eyes would cloud over and he would sigh, ‘I don’t know what’s to become of the estate, though, when I’m gone.’

  ‘It’ll be sold or broken up, you’ll see,’ Kate’s mother would say resentfully to her family in the privacy of their home. ‘Young Arthur’s for the high life and no mistake! He doesn’t want to know what hard work is!’

  Jonathan and Kate would exchange a fond smile. Esther could not understand anyone who did not share her love of the land. Her prediction was right, although not quite in the way she would have expected.

  The thirties brought their own particular problems for the nation. The Depression hit hard but for Esther Godfrey it brought good fortune. The Squire, rather than see his land go to strangers, decided to offer the three farms which made up the bulk of his estate – Brumbys’ Farm, Rookery Farm and Souters’ Farm – to the sitting tenants.

  ‘I’d rather see you have the land, Esther, my dear,’ he had told Kate’s mother, blowing his nose vigorously on a huge handkerchief. ‘I know you love Brumbys’ Farm.’

  Esther’s eyes had glowed and the wooden box that held all her savings had been pulled from under her bed and the coins and notes carefully counted. With land at the lowest price anyone could remember, there was just enough for Brumbys’ Farm to become Esther’s.

  Kate still smiled every time she thought of that Sunday morning on one of her visits. Her mother had been as excited as a young girl.

  ‘It’ll be mine – really mine – I mean,’ she had added swiftly, glancing at Jonathan, ‘ours!’

  Kate had watched as Jonathan had put his arms around his wife. ‘No, my love,’ he had said quietly but firmly. ‘The papers will be in your name and your name alone.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing. I won’t hear of it being otherwise. You are Brumbys’ Farm.’ He had smoothed back the tendrils of hair from her forehead. ‘Your name shall be the first one on the deeds after the Marshalls. There now, won’t that be something?’

  Esther had nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘Yes,’ she had whispered. ‘Yes, it will.’

  Esther had been the only one to take up the Squire’s offer. Tom Willoughby, with no family to carry on after him, decided to remain as a tenant for the last few years of his working life.

  ‘I can’t see the point of me buying, Esther lass, though I’m glad for you,’ the big man had boomed, his red cheeks wobbling with laughter. ‘No one deserves it more ‘n you. But I only want to work a few more years and what bit o’ savings we’ve got, I want to enjoy. See a bit o’ how the other half lives afore I die.’ His laughter had boomed out and he had winked saucily at Esther. She had smiled indulgently, trying to understand how anyone could even think of leaving Fleethaven Point. Less than six months after their conversation, Tom’s wife, Martha, had died. So now only Tom and his sister-in-law lived at Rookery Farm.

  The Souters, whom Kate didn’t know very well, for their farm lay to the west of the Squire’s estate and was the farthest away from Brumbys’, were known to be spendthrifts and had neither the ready money nor the collateral to raise a loan.

  So Esther was the only one to buy. At last, she had her reward for all her years of hard work. And now, Kate thought, all that might be snatched away from her mother if their country were plunged once more into war.

  But perhaps, Kate thought, our little cor
ner of England will hardly notice the war.

  How wrong she was!

  Kate walked down the lane towards home, with Danny riding his bike at the side of her, wobbling precariously as he tried to slow his pace to match her walking speed.

  ‘So what are you going to do, now you’re back? Get your old job back at old man Reynolds’?’

  ‘I might. Miss Davenport was telling Mam only last week that the workroom supervisor’s leaving to get married.’

  ‘Your old job, eh?’

  ‘Maybe, but I might be needed to do something a little bit more important.’ She glanced at him and added, impishly. ‘I could always join up.’

  Danny’s eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘What d’you reckon women could do, eh?’

  ‘Plenty!’ she flashed back, just as he had known she would. ‘It was the last war that set us free from the kitchen sink. Women worked as VAD nurses, in factories, all sorts . . .’

  ‘Remember it, do you?’ He was grinning at her indignation, teasing her fondly.

  ‘No. One of my clients in Lincoln, Mrs Clarkson, was a VAD nurse in the last lot. She loved to talk about it when she came for a fitting. We’ll play an even bigger part this time – you’ll see!’

  ‘It’ll not come to much, I don’t reckon. It’ll all be over by Christmas.’

  Ominously, Kate reminded him, ‘That’s what they said last time!’

  Eighteen

  Of course it was not over by Christmas, nor even by well into 1940. The news was not good and as it got worse, Kate began to fear that any day, Danny would say he was volunteering.

  The rationing of certain foods sent Esther into a fury. ‘What are we supposed to do then? Us that produce the butter and bacon? Ration oursens? Answer me that?’

  ‘They’ll tell us, Esther love, just as they’ll tell us what crops they want us to plant.’