by Milly Adams
She spun back. ‘Yes, sir.’ Then she doubled out of the room. She had almost three weeks to get through. She must make it.
Chapter Eight
The padre waded through the surf, knocking aside timber, bodies, helmets, clambering towards the beach, crouching low, hands to his ears; the noise, the terrible noise: shells, screams, groans, shouts: ‘Padre, here.’ ‘Padre, over there.’ ‘Padre’, bloody everywhere.
‘I’m coming, coming, coming.’ But he wasn’t. His feet were sinking into the sand. He was being sucked down by demons coiling around his legs. ‘Daniel, I’m coming. Daniel, wait.’ But Daniel wasn’t waiting. Instead he was on the sand, blown out of the trench the men had dug in the dunes. Yes, he was out and hurt by the bombs, but the padre couldn’t hear what Daniel was saying because of the shouts. ‘Padre, here.’ ‘Padre, over there.’ ‘Padre’, bloody everywhere.
The sand was in Tom’s mouth, as he called again, ‘Daniel, I’m coming.’ He kicked at the demons, and again, until he was free. He called, ‘Stay there, I’m coming.’ He didn’t want to go, not out into the firestorm, not out into the bombs. Not again. He stayed, breathing, just for a moment, only a moment. The sand was in his mouth, sharp and choking. It tasted of salt. ‘Padre? Where are you, Padre?’
He ran now, crouching, weaving, medical bag over his shoulder. It banged against his side. Bang. Bang. Daniel was bleeding, and so too Fred, and Archie. ‘Padre, here.’ ‘Tom, here.’ ‘Tom Rees, where are you?’ Tom ran faster, each step sinking into the sand, but he’d paused too long. Bang. Bang. Boom went the bomb, on Daniel, Fred and Archie. The medical bag burst. Shriek went his voice; the air was sucked from his lungs, then a scream, then only pain. He fell, crunching into the sand, tasting blood – his blood – smelling cordite, and his flesh. He had been too late. He had waited, paused, not come.
Tom woke, the darkness cloaking him, choking him, the sheets tangled around him. He struggled free, sweating. He swung out of bed and sat upright, making himself breathe, making himself return here, to this room, this village, this life. ‘For God’s sake,’ he breathed. ‘For God’s sake – if not my sake – leave me alone, let me go. I tried, but I couldn’t reach you. I paused, that’s all. I paused because I couldn’t do it again, just at that moment. I couldn’t do it any more.’
He slumped and sank his head into his hands, but that hurt his damaged eye and cheek. Rising, he dragged on his dressing gown and inched his way to the door in the darkness, making his way down the stairs, feeling the bare boards beneath his feet.
‘Solid ground,’ he muttered, longing to hear some human voice in this creaking quietness of a house. It was so big, so empty, but he was empty too, his God as elusive as Miss Katherine Watson’s.
He turned the light on in the sitting room and sat in Hastings’s favourite armchair. It was so old that the cushions had acquired the old man’s shape, but it suited him too, so that was that.
‘So, Tom, you’re here, sitting as perhaps he sat. Now what? You’re alone. You’re out of the army, you’ve just been ditched by Pauline, who can’t stand to look at you, so what now?’
Not that she’d said that; she had been too polite and merely handed him back his ring, saying, ‘People change, Tom. I’m sorry.’
He had felt like saying, ‘Yes, people tend to change when a bomb goes off in their face.’
He minded, of course he bloody did, he had said to his mother when he had telephoned her a few days ago. He then asked what it meant if a girl went away to stay with relatives for six months and was ‘no better than she ought to be’.
His mother had said, ‘It means someone has a vicious tongue, and you shouldn’t pay them any mind. You’re a vicar, for heaven’s sake.’
He laughed now in the quiet of the vicarage. She was right, of course, but then his mother usually was. She’d asked about the nightmares. He had lied and said he was untroubled. She’d said, ‘Don’t talk nonsense, Thomas Edward Rees. But one day you will be as untroubled as most people, which means that you will always have something to mither you, but not as much as you have at the moment. Make sure you keep busy, do something constructive. I like to spring-clean if I have something on my mind.’
The thought of flicking a duster around Mrs B’s domain, where not a mite of dust would dare settle, was a battle too far, but perhaps he could prepare his commentary for Farmer Fletcher’s funeral? He turned away from that thought, unable to face more death at this precise moment. But in the annexe beyond the kitchen there was a load of furniture and boxes left over from Hastings’s time, which should be sorted. The old boy had no relatives, so his personal effects had been ‘stored’, as the bishop put it, when he had sent Tom here on his release from hospital and the army.
Perhaps clearing out the annexe equated to his mother’s spring-cleaning?
Well, now was as good a time as any. He checked the clock. Yes, one thirty, as usual. It was amazing how little sleep one could manage on. He slipped through the hall to the kitchen, and then into the lion’s den. There was electricity to all the rooms, which was a blessing in a village. The annexe smelled musty, undisturbed, and he should have put his eye-patch on, to keep the socket dust-free, but it was almost 100 per cent healed, just tender. Soon he’d get a glass eye put in.
He checked the blackout and heaved a load of yellowed newspapers off a small table. The dust rose. He placed them in a heap by the kitchen door. They could go out in the morning, for collection by the Scouts and Guides tomorrow. For the next half hour he worked his way through all the scrap paper. Finally he reached a scratched and worn desk that he had spied within moments of starting his spring-clean. He needed one, so this could be a good night’s work.
The top drawer was full of lists, addresses and minutes of the parish council dating back to 1908. The secretary would have copies, so they went on the scrap pile too. The bottom drawer held much the same, but there were also several hardback notebooks, which he sat down to flick through, because on the front of each was written: ‘Helpful aids to my failing memory, and those who come after me.’ They were dated from 1930 onwards.
He heaved an old typewriter off an equally elderly armchair from which horsehair bulged through splits, and sat down. The annexe had a stone floor and his feet were freezing. Tomorrow he ought to see if there was a pair of slippers somewhere amongst the detritus. He opened one of the notebooks. The handwriting was almost copperplate and put his to shame. Reading was not his favourite occupation, with only one eye, but he read on, as the villagers and their lives were laid out before him. The whole exercise told Tom as much about Albert Hastings as it did about the local people and their difficulties. Slowly he relaxed back into the chair, understanding Hastings’s frailties, doubts and his humanity in a way that made his own struggles to find his faith seem normal.
He had reached 1931 when there was a loud rapping at the annexe window. ‘Hello, hello, anyone there? You’re showing a light. Put it out or adjust your blackout, please.’
It was Kate Watson, who had been arm-twisted into helping Percy, the ARP warden, whilst she was here. Tom leapt to his feet and forced a way through to the window. The blackout was sound. He yelled, ‘It seems all right.’
She knocked again. ‘It most certainly isn’t, Vicar.’
Perhaps there was another window. ‘Hang on, hang on,’ he called back. ‘Keep knocking – I’ll track you down.’ He eased aside boxes balanced on top of one another, following the sound, until he reached a coat-stand hung with old mackintoshes. This almost hid a small shuttered window. Shrunken knot-holes in the wood let some light shine through. He moved a couple of pictures along the picture rail and hung a mackintosh from them, covering the window.
‘How’s that?’ he yelled.
‘You are forgiven, Vicar, without even having to pay the penance of a Hail Mary.’
‘Wrong religion, but have you time for a cuppa?’
‘Put the kettle on or find a gin, and I’ll nip round to the kitchen door.’
/> He grinned at her nerve, her sheer … well, what? She fizzed with energy, rather like little Lizzy, who in the space of these last ten days had come alive for the first time since her father had been reported missing.
He hurried towards the steps that led up into the kitchen, knocking into a pile of books and stubbing his toe on the top step. He swore as he felt his way through the kitchen, not daring to put on the light, or he’d get ticked off when he opened the door. He unlocked it, and in Kate stepped. He fumbled for the light switch and flicked it on. As he started to turn, he remembered he had no eye-patch and hesitated, aware not just of that, but of his old dressing gown and faded pyjamas, not to mention his bare feet – and the neighbours, who would be shocked at him entertaining a young woman in the dead of night. Thank heavens Mrs B didn’t live in.
Kate wore her ARP helmet and huge blue overalls. She had rolled up the sleeves and trousers, which made her look vulnerable, but there was something about her that made Tom feel she was that anyway. She was examining his face with no embarrassment, and he could think of nothing better to do than stand there and let her.
She said, ‘It must have hurt like nothing on earth. Probably still does. Will you get a glass eye, and pop it out at the Sunday School Christmas beano, as your party piece? Let’s get the kettle on, shall we? Mustn’t shock the neighbours with gin on my breath, if I have to take them to task for showing a light. Though most are asleep. Not you, though?’
As she was talking, she was shaking the kettle to assess how much water it contained. She clearly decided there was enough and put the kettle on the gas hob. There was a plop as she lit it.
‘We still have the solid-fuel range at Melbury Cottage, though there is gas to the house, so perhaps Sarah will get it connected one day. You get the cups. I’m not doing all the work.’
He did, grinning. What was it about this girl that was just so damned – well, what? He found he kept thinking this about her and couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
The kettle was already boiling. ‘Shall we use your precious ration or nip into the garden and pick mint? It makes a good soother and could help you sleep.’
He went to the windowsill, feeling unbearably smug. ‘No need for the garden. Mrs B keeps mint here to add to salads. How much?’
Kate came to stand next to him. She smelled of a mixture of cigarettes and perfume. Where on earth did she get both from? She plucked a few of the mint heads from the plant. ‘Do not tell Madam Bartholomew it was the Devil Incarnate herself who came and besmirched her mint and made herself at home. It would lead to an exorcising of the house. Is it war nightmares that keep you from sleep?’ She nodded towards the annexe. ‘Are you going to turn the light off? It’s such a waste of money.’
He did, then came back and sat at the table with her. ‘Talking of lack of sleep, how do you manage to do this ARP lark once a week, especially now it’s school holidays and you’re on duty all day?’
‘It’s not for long, and I used to do ARP shifts in London after my turn at the club. There’s a war on, young man. We must all do our bit.’ Her tone was ironic. ‘So, what were you doing in the annexe? I remember old Hastings used to brew home-made wine in there down one end. He made it from elderflowers. The village would love you beyond all reason if you tried to, but perhaps you’d need sugar. I wonder if honey might do?’
Tom liked listening to her voice. It was as melodious and lilting as her singing. He would like to hear her at her club. ‘Hymns aren’t, are they?’
She looked surprised. ‘Aren’t what?’
He realised he had spoken aloud. ‘I was just thinking of hymn-singing as opposed to other sorts, that’s all. Has Miss Easton spoken to you?’
‘Yes.’ Kate sipped her mint tea. ‘She’s chasing me about her War Bond fund-raiser. You know she wants to put on the musical Anything Goes close to Christmas and will be auditioning the villagers to find talent at the end of the school holidays. She’d like me alongside, and also thinks I could help with the dance routines, and with training the children in tap, and so on. Plus – and this is the worst bit – she needs me to nip into school to teach the young ones the three Rs: reading, writing and ’rithmetic. Fortunately, I will escape all of this and be back on my own turf within two or three weeks.’
Tom sipped his own tea, and liked it. ‘Counting the days, eh? How many hours?’
She grinned. ‘If I’m not counting them, then everyone else is, led by Mrs B.’
‘Not everyone.’ He swished the mint around and downed the last of the tea. He realised that he had spoken his thoughts aloud and hastened to add, ‘Lizzy will miss you.’
‘Not when her mother’s back. Lizzy needs her more than she knows, especially now that her dad is who-knows-where. Perhaps your God has a direct line to the Pearly Gates and can do an audit of those who’ve entered?’
‘Well, you could ask him.’
She checked her watch. ‘Time to patrol the outskirts now.’ She put her mug on the draining board. ‘Better wash those up, Vic; or Mrs B will know, and then your life won’t be worth living. Entertaining she-who-is-no-better-than-she-ought-to-be in the middle of the night – tut-tut. Will you be going back in the annexe, to dig about some more? If so, put the patch over your eye, because you don’t need an infection. Trust me, I know.’
‘How?’
‘About infection, you mean? It happens with burns, everyone knows that. So, why not give in gracefully and let the tea work its magic?’ She was walking to the door.
Tom said, ‘I should be working on the commentary for old Farmer Fletcher’s funeral. Platitudes are tricky, when you don’t know the person, and I hardly had time to get to know Graham Fletcher.’ He was washing up the mugs.
Kate said, ‘I’m going to flick the light switch, so you’re about to be plunged into darkness, which is what should greet that bastard Fletcher, rather than an angelic choir. He was known to beat the living daylights out of his poor wife, Olive, on a regular basis. I dare say she is hugely relieved he’s gone.’
In the darkness he heard her opening the door and, as her words resonated, he said, ‘I can’t comment on that.’
The moonlight flooded in through the door and for a moment there was silence, and neither moved. Kate’s voice came, disembodied, but loud. ‘Well, you damned well should. What are vicars there for, but to protect their flock? Maybe you don’t need to stop old Graham Fletcher raising a hand to Olive, for that’s sorted, but what about their son? Damnable thug, if ever I saw one, that Adrian Fletcher. You should keep your eye on him and the way he treats his lovely little wife, Susie. You’ve still got one good eye, so why not use it?’
The moonlight was cut off as Kate slammed the door. He didn’t bother to put the light back on, but dried the mugs by feel, wanting to throw them at the wall and hear them break. Mrs B had said Kate was difficult, and how right she was. He flung the tea towel down on the draining board, put the mugs away and felt his way across to the annexe, too annoyed to sleep. Damn the girl!
He flicked on the light and settled back into the decrepit armchair, picking up the notebook. What gave her the right to give instructions on burns, anyway? It wasn’t as though singing in a ruddy nightclub gave her medical expertise? She was just a little know-it-all.
Tom read for another half an hour.
The village turned out to the funeral the next day, Monday. Olive Fletcher, Graham’s widow, wore grey, not black, but in contrast Adrian wore a black tie and a shirt that looked too tight for his bull-neck. Susie Fletcher, the son’s wife, was thin, and pale. Tom greeted them at the door of the church, and Mr Fellows, the chairman of the parish council, showed them to their pew at the front. Farmer Graham Fletcher was already in place, in a casket with brass handles. There were no flowers.
Tom Rees began, ‘We bring nothing into the world, and we take nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’
Olive Fletcher had been dry-eyed and composed when she came to
see him last week, but he had supposed farmers and their wives were used to death – even sudden death, for Graham Fletcher had died in a tractor accident. It appeared he had fallen onto some sort of sharp-pronged machinery that he was towing, perhaps something to do with the harvest, which he was taking in at the time. Olive had asked Tom to do what one of her family could have done, and talk about Graham. She had said they would not be able to do her husband justice.
He stood in front of the altar and looked at Olive, and then out across the congregation. He began, ‘We have come here today to remember …’ As he moved on, he thought of all the good men and true who would not survive this war. He remembered those who had died around him, as he dashed from one wounded bloke to another, some of whom had called for their mother, others for water; some of whom he was too late for, like Daniel, his best friend.
He looked out across the casket, encompassing the congregation, and he saw Kate. She stared at him, her head unbowed. She looked very much as though she were there to assess Tom’s performance. He didn’t find her a reassuring presence, merely an embarrassing reminder that she had been right about Graham Fletcher. Tom had read Albert Hastings’s notebooks for some hours, and there it was: poor Olive’s life with Graham Fletcher, explained in copperplate writing. So what about Susie Fletcher? Was history being repeated?
As he read out the bare facts of Graham’s life now, Tom emphasised the farmer’s well-run dairy herd, his age, and added at the end, for it would no doubt be true, that his presence would leave a gap in the lives of his family, which they must strive to fill, with the help of the village. He said nothing more. He looked at Olive Fletcher and she nodded. The son was swallowing, tears streaming down his face. The daughter-in-law sat on Olive’s right. The two women held hands. Tom found Kate again, and then looked at Olive. Usually he would have flannelled some more. Now he merely smiled at Olive. She nodded again. He had said nothing really, and Olive thought it enough.