In This Quiet Earth (Part Three of The People of this Parish Saga)

by Nicola Thorne

  There had been a sense of camaraderie between them almost from the beginning, a friendship based on mutual liking and respect. They were at ease in each other’s company and they found they had a lot in common, beginning with the war. They talked about it a great deal, exchanging stories about their adventures, experiences and the many tragic episodes they had witnessed. Jean couldn’t speak highly enough of Carson, praised his courage, his strength, his stoicism, his bravery and Dora, who had always loved him, bathed in his reflected glory. Jean found Dora an enchanting companion; interesting, intelligent and a good raconteur. She also liked to eat and drink well, smoke and swap tall stories. In many ways in was like being with a man, a comrade rather than a woman, and he realised that this was because some element was missing: sex. There was no sexual element in his relationship with Dora at all.

  Not that he didn’t find her attractive, but there was also a curious element of asexuality about her that, he realised, he had found quite often among the nursing staff during the war as if, for professional reasons, they had to distance themselves from men. If this was the case why, then, did she feel she had to distance herself from him now that the war was over?

  It was difficult to admit that such a sad, thankless journey should also be an enjoyable one, but it was and now that it was nearly over, because it had to end some time, he knew he would be sorry. He would miss the friendship and companionship of this delightful woman. Without her an important dimension would have gone from his life.

  They reached the farm after a few minutes and stood looking about them. There was a water butt in the yard and Dora realised that this must have been the one in which her father had ducked Farmer Frith. The large, comfortable-looking farmhouse was in front of them, barns and outbuildings to one side. The cattle were still penned up and gazed mournfully at them, vapour formed by the cold air billowing from their nostrils. There was no sign of anyone about.

  Trying to get her bearings Dora indicated a path away from the farm which led towards the lake and, as they followed it, clearing the last of the outlying barns, she saw the whitewashed cottage practically on the very edge of the lake. She clutched Jean’s arm.

  “That’s it. Oh Jean!” She put her hands to her face and he placed a comforting arm round her.

  “It’s so hard to imagine, isn’t it?” she said after a while, lowering her hands. “Mother, just the age Debbie is now ...” She shook her head and, gazing down at her, Jean saw tears in her eyes.

  “I’m afraid that if you think history will repeat itself you’re going to be disappointed,” he said. “The cottage looks empty.”

  “Oh, I didn’t for a moment think ...” As he released her, Dora dug her hands into her pockets again and wandered slowly towards the cottage. She peered in through the windows, rubbing the pane with her gloved hand in order to get a better view. Jean, meanwhile, tried the handle of the door but it was locked. Cobwebs hung from the porch, and weeds grew across the threshold. Dora then turned and looked over at the field.

  “Somewhere there my little brother is buried,” she whispered, a catch in her voice. “They called him Thomas. I wish I’d brought some flowers.” She shook her head, “It all seems so sad, so sad.”

  “What did the baby die of?”

  “He was stillborn, eight weeks premature. Mother was undernourished and she had had to work so hard in the house.”

  “Try and put it out of your mind,” Jean said gently and, as they turned their backs on the cottage, over which there hung an unmistakable air of sadness, he put his arm round her shoulders again, and hugged her to him.

  “I must take a photo for Mother,” Dora said taking her camera out of its box. “I promised I would.”

  She aimed carefully and took one of the cottage, one of the field next to it, the possible burial place of Thomas, and then, turning, photographed the farm buildings before stowing her camera away.

  When they reached the farmyard they saw a man watching them from the doorstep, a scowl on his face. He was quite young so he couldn’t be Farmer Frith, who had been much older than her parents forty years before, and was most probably dead. Dora tried to appease the man with a friendly smile but his expression didn’t change.

  “Mr Frith?” she enquired.

  “Frith?” The man’s scowl deepened. “You’re looking for Farmer Frith?”

  “Well ... yes. We understood this was Frith’s Farm.”

  “Frith has been gone twenty years or more,” the man said. “The old man died and he only had a daughter. There was no one to run it.”

  “I see. Well, thank you. I’m sorry we troubled you.”

  “You might at least ask before you go snooping round private property.” The farmer’s tone was aggressive. “Lucky I didn’t set my dogs on you!”

  “I really am sorry.” Dora’s tone hardened. “But we’re looking for somebody, a missing relative and ... well, my mother and father stayed in the cottage,” she pointed the way they had just come, “many years ago, and we thought it a faint, the faintest possibility, that the missing relative, a cousin of mine, might have gone there too.”

  “That cottage hasn’t been occupied since I’ve been here and that is going on ten years.” The farmer’s tone had softened slightly. “I’m a bachelor and I live here with my dogs, and I would have thought it polite and decent of you to ask my permission before trespassing on my land.” He raised an arm and pointed towards the road down which they had come. “Now be off, or I’ll put my dogs on to you.”

  Dora turned and held out a hand to Jean who, from his expression, looked as though he would have liked to do to the present farmer what Dora’s father had done to his predecessor, tip him in the water butt. Dora pulled him away and, together, they went as quickly as they could along the uneven track towards the gate, not daring, or caring, to look back.

  “Well Farmer Frith has a worthy successor,” Jean said grimly as they drove along the road, back the way they had come, towards Buttermere. “Strangers don’t seem particularly welcome here.”

  The mist now almost obscured the whole of the surrounding countryside, obliterating the beautiful views, and as thick flakes of snow began slowly to fall, daylight faded almost entirely and Dora switched on the lights of the car.

  “I don’t think we’re going to make it back to Keswick,” she said looking out of the windscreen. “I don’t fancy a night in the car, either.”

  “Wasn’t there an inn on the way here?” Jean got the map out of the glove compartment and began to examine it. “It was tucked off the road, if I remember, just on the edge of the forest.”

  “Keep an eye out,” Dora again peered forward. “And pray.” She looked at him. “Do you pray? Have you prayed?”

  “I’ve prayed,” he nodded reflectively folding his arms across his chest, “but I don’t think God heard me. It made me think, after a while, that there was no one there. And you?”

  “I’ve prayed,” Dora answered. “Mostly for other people. I’ve prayed some might die to ease their sufferings. However,” she gave him a cheerful grin, “I don’t think we can compare these conditions to the ones on the Somme.”

  “Not quite.” Jean also smiled then, peering out of the window, put out a hand. “Stop! I think this is our pub.”

  In the mist Dora couldn’t see a thing. It had started to snow so thickly that the windscreen wipers could scarcely do their job. They were getting slower and slower, and soon they would stop completely rendering further passage impossible.

  As soon as Jean got out of the car he disappeared, the mist was so thick. Dora wished that the car had some form of heating and thought that, if they really got stuck and could go no further, and there was no inn, they would have to spend the night in it. Suddenly it all seemed rather frightening and the comparison with the war not so strange after all. Even in the most innocent-seeming situations danger lurked. How bizarre to survive the war and die of cold in the snows of Lakeland.

  Time passed and she started to worry. S
upposing Jean had got stuck in a drift? Supposing? She began to feel cold and got out of the car. It was better to walk about than sit where she was, in danger of freezing.

  Suddenly a voice hailed her and her heart leaped. Jean appeared in the gloom flashing a strong torchlight in front of him.

  “Jean!” She hurled herself towards him. “You’ve found it?” He nodded.

  “It’s tiny. It’s empty, but the landlord appears friendly and cheerful and will give us a meal and a bed. It is also warm. There’s a great fire in the bar and plenty of logs stacked by the side of it.”

  “Oh Jean I do love you!” she cried and, raising her head, kissed him on the cheek.

  He looked down at her, surprised, and caught her by the hand.

  “Do you?”

  “What?”

  “Love me?”

  “Yes, in a way, I do.”

  Jean went round to the rear of the car and extracted their suitcases from the boot. Before handing the torch to Dora he pointed it downwards. His footprints were clear in the snow, but were fast being obliterated as it continued to fall thickly. “Now follow that path. Do not deviate for a second, and I’ll follow you.”

  Dora, appreciating his firmness, did as she was told and, within moments, she saw lights ahead and made out the outline of a small pub with a sign proclaiming the name: The Lamb and Flag. Waiting at the door was a burly, bearded man, also with a torch which he shone in their direction. As Dora came up to him he stretched out his hand.

  “Welcome. I think you just made it.”

  “I think we did.” Dora shook his hand warmly. “I thought I’d survived the war to be lost in Lakeland.”

  “You were in the war?” he said, interested, relieving Jean of one of his suitcases as he turned towards the door.

  “In the VADS. Jean served all through in the cavalry.”

  “I was with the Coldstreams,” he said over his shoulder. “Got wounded at Ypres. End of war. Bought a pub.” As he stomped ahead of them Dora saw that he had a bad limp, maybe a wooden leg. “Ben Reynolds,” he said cheerfully, dropping the suitcase on the floor of the bar which was attractively lit with paraffin lamps while, as Jean had said, a great fire roared up the chimney. Dora rubbed her hands with pleasure.

  “Oh, this is great!” she cried catching hold of Jean again.

  “And what will it be to drink?” The host went behind the bar and looked at them. “And this one’s on the house.”

  “In that case it has to be whisky.” Dora went over to the fire, still rubbing her hands. “I think this is one of the happiest days in my life. For a moment I really thought... Well,” she glanced at Jean, “better not to say what I thought. It all happened so suddenly.”

  “Well, your husband was most anxious to get back to you, Mrs ...”

  “Dora,” she said quickly. “Please call me Dora, and this is Jean.”

  “Parterre’s the name,” Jean smiled at the man across the bar. “I’ll have a whisky too. It’s very kind of you.”

  “I’m glad of the company,” Ben said. “My wife went to Keswick to market and phoned an hour ago to say she was staying with her sister. Roads impassable. I thought that I’d close up and have an early night. Lucky you’re married,” he added with a smile. “We only have two guest bedrooms and one of them is being decorated. I don’t really expect many visitors at this time of the year. As soon as you’ve finished I’ll show you your room.”

  ***

  The landlord of The Lamb and Flag was hospitality itself. When they descended from their bedroom he insisted on more drinks and then they dined on a delicious meal which he had cooked himself. With this there were fine wines, held in his cellars since before the war.

  They ate in the kitchen in front of the range where there roared another log fire and, as the evening progressed, they got progressively happier and it was possible to forget the icy conditions outside.

  Finally at ten o’clock, overcome with a satiety of good food and drink, they said goodnight and went upstairs to bed.

  The bedroom was dominated by a large double bed, besides which there was a washstand with a jug and bowl on top, a dressing table and a small wardrobe. The pretty chintz curtains were drawn across a window which, in daytime, looked on to the hills at the back of the pub though whether or not they would see the view the next day they did not as yet know.

  It was cold in the room although their kind host had hastily lit a fire when they came downstairs to the bar before dinner. But it made little difference to the temperature. Dora knelt in front of the fire warming her hands while Jean sat on the bed and began to unfasten his shoelaces. He looked up and saw her face, her expression thoughtful in the shadows cast by the flickering flames. Gone was the merriment, the slight inebriation caused by the festivities they’d enjoyed downstairs.

  “Penny for them?” Jean asked quietly.

  “Why didn’t we say we weren’t married?” Hands still in front of the fire Dora turned to look at him.

  “Well, it would have been very embarrassing wouldn’t it? I mean for him. Why do you think we didn’t say?”

  “The same reason, I suppose.” She turned her head again towards the fire. “Cowardice. I don’t know what it is.”

  “Does it matter?” He left the bed and squatted down beside her, uncertain as to whether or not he should take advantage of this unexpected intimacy.

  “No, it’s childish I suppose.” Dora stood up and stretched. Then she looked towards the bed. “I suppose we have no choice but to share this?”

  “I suppose not.” He smiled and, also standing, attempted to put his arm round her shoulder. He felt very excited and aroused. More romantic conditions could not have been created if he’d tried.

  But Dora moved away and sat on the bed, hands clutching the side, gazing at the floorboards. Finally she raised her eyes and gave him that rather direct, startling look to which he was by now accustomed.

  “I don’t want you to get any ideas, Jean. I mean ...”

  “You mean ...” he walked over and stood looking down at her, “you’re not interested?”

  “In sex? No, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I see. Is there any reason ... I thought you liked me?”

  The lowering of his voice expressed his feelings of dejection. Knowing Dora, he knew she wasn’t playing hard to get. There was nothing of the flirt, the temptress about her.

  “I do like you. I like you enormously, you know that; but I’m not sexually attracted to men.”

  “So it was quite true what people said about May?” His voice assumed a bitter tone and he slumped on the bed beside her.

  “What did they say about May?” He could feel her bristling beside him.

  “Well, that you and she ...”

  “We were just very good friends. Extremely close; we’d been through a lot together. People have such dirty minds.”

  “Yes they do. Sorry. Well...” Jean stood up again and looked round. The pleasant feeling of inebriation, coupled with anticipation once the door had closed, had completely vanished. “Would you like me to sleep on the floor?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Dora said robustly, getting up. “You’ll freeze to death. I just wanted you to know, now, so that there is no misunderstanding. You can regard it as a kind of wartime situation. We have to stay together to keep warm. It doesn’t mean we have to have sex. Now if you don’t mind turning round I’ll get undressed.”

  Jean turned towards the fire conscious of the sounds of Dora preparing for bed. How wonderful that could have been, had the situation been different. After a very short time he heard the bedsprings give and she said, “Okay. You can look or, rather, you can get undressed and I’ll put my head under the bedclothes. Not that I haven’t seen a naked man before.” She gave a giggle and her head disappeared under the eiderdown. Jean quickly took off his clothes, got out his pyjamas from the suitcase, put them on and went over to the washstand to sluice his face and clean his teeth.

  “Golly,
I forgot to wash,” Dora’s head peeped above the bedclothes. “I was just so cold.”

  Jean finished his teeth and poured the dirty water into a bucket. He then put out the light by the door and climbed gingerly into the bed taking care to keep as near to the edge as he could. It was bitterly cold. Beside him he could hear Dora’s teeth chattering.

  “I guess Ben thought we’d keep each other warm,” Dora said and he felt a hand stretch out towards him.

  “I don’t know that I can trust myself,” Jean replied

  “You mean you might rape me?”

  “No, I don’t mean that,” he grunted between closed teeth. “But I would find it very hard to keep control of my feelings. I do like you Dora. Very much. I’m attracted to you. I find you strange and fascinating, different. I don’t quite know how to put it.”

  “Strange?” She sounded curious. “How do you mean ‘strange’?”

  “I can’t quite explain it.” He began to feel calmer and took the hand that lay on the bed, palm upwards, next to him. It was warm and he clasped it firmly. “I suppose it was the sex thing. I mean I could guess you didn’t like sex, didn’t welcome it, rather. There was something about you that seemed to say: ‘Thus far and no further’.” He paused and gazed into the darkness. “Have you never slept with a man?”

  “Not until tonight,” she said with, again, that explosive, rather untypical girlish giggle.

  “I mean ...”

  “I know what you mean. Well, no, I never have.”

  “You might like it.”

  “I don’t think I would or I’d have tried it. I didn’t lack opportunities. I’m just not attracted to men in that way. I know I’m not.”

  “So you’re never going to get married?”

  “Probably not.” She gave a mirthless laugh. “Anyway I’m nearly forty.”

  “And children?”

  “Too old for them too. I’ve got a nephew and two nieces, young relations. I get a lot of satisfaction and pleasure from them. I love them very much. That’s why I wanted so badly to find Debbie. I adore her.” Her voice became sad again and she sighed deeply as if thinking of the missing subject of their quest. “No, please don’t misunderstand me. I like men, I enjoy their company. I’ve enormously enjoyed yours, more than I can say. But I don’t want them as fathers, not of my children anyway.”