by S Block
His mother will never see or hold him again.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Steph felt the temptation to go up to Stanley’s room, to wake him up, and hold him.
He wouldn’t understand. He thinks I should be happy about saving his life. I might be if I believed I had saved his life. But was he ever in danger of losing his life? Really?
No one should have a gun and use it the way I did. You shout. You call out. You shouldn’t just shoot. Stan wouldn’t have just shot. Everything’s ruined. Every last thing. I need to speak to Stanley. Stanley would know what to say. Whatever he said would be for the best.
Instead, Steph reached into the right-hand dresser drawer, where she kept a small block of white stationery she used to write letters to her husband Stan while he was away. She sat back down and began to slowly write, feeling intense gratitude towards Teresa for recently teaching her the skill to communicate with Stanley at distance.
She didn’t give details about what she had done. She wrote only that she wished Stan was home because something ‘had happened’ that he would know how to deal with better than she did. She was still writing when the sun began to hover below the horizon. After reading the letter slowly back Steph screwed it up and put it in the grate in the Aga, where it burst into flame and vanished in a plume of smoke.
He’s enough to contend with.
Next thing she knew, Steph blinked as the first rays of sunlight slowly inched across her face and pierced her eyes. She remembered that she had barely slept once again. There was nothing she could do about that now. A new day was coming into being, full of things that needed seeing to. Steph rose from the chair, replaced the pilot’s wallet in the dresser’s left-hand drawer, filled the kettle with water, and put it on the stove to boil. She then shuffled over to the stairs and plodded wearily back up to her bedroom. It felt as if lead weights had been hung around her ankles.
In her bedroom, she hung up her dressing gown and began to get dressed. Work would be a useful distraction from all that had prevented her from being able to sleep.
*
Throughout the morning, a raw winter wind blew a thick blanket of grey cloud straight off the Atlantic and across the region. Locals were used to such winds, and knew enough to stay indoors as much as possible. Sheltering inside was not an option for Steph and Stanley. The harvest over, the land needed preparing for next year’s crop.
Buttoned against the elements, Steph drove their green tractor slowly over the earth of the far field, as Stanley sat beside her looking backwards, ensuring they were keeping the plough – and furrows – in a straight line. Owing to poor drainage the far field was usually the last to be ploughed over. But this year Steph wanted to do it first. Though the police had reassured her otherwise, in the back of Steph’s mind the far field felt like the scene of a crime. She wanted to obliterate the scene at the earliest opportunity.
His blood is on this field. Plough it under!
Steph wouldn’t stop, even when the weather closed in further, hammering them with icy nails of rain that turned the field into little more than a quagmire. The tractor laboured on, consuming more fuel than Stanley wanted. But there was no going against his mother when she was in this mood.
So focused were they, neither initially saw the saloon car wending its way off the main road towards the farmhouse. Stanley was the first to notice.
‘Who’s this then?!’ he called over the rain.
Steph put the tractor into ‘idle’ and watched the saloon park outside the farmhouse. In her experience, sleek black cars like that never came unless they were on official business of some kind or other. Since she wasn’t expecting anyone from the Ministry, she assumed it was someone about Christophe. A ball of dread rolled slowly around her stomach.
You can’t just kill a man – even a German – and get off scot free.
She longed for Stan.
After several moments, the driver of the saloon got out and waved in their direction. He pulled down the brim of his Trilby then lifted up the collar of his overcoat and waited, seemingly assuming the Farrows would naturally come to him.
‘Should we go see who he is and what he wants?’ asked Stanley, feeling the same excitement as when interviewed by the police about the pilot’s death.
Steph didn’t answer as she watched the stranger.
‘If it’s the police again, let him come to us. We’re not at their beck and call.’
‘But they might have more questions,’ said Stanley.
‘Then he can wait for us to finish.’
‘You don’t want to mess him around, Ma.’
‘Not messing him around. He’s come uninvited. We’ve work on.’
His mother’s resolve made Stanley nervous. It was how she steeled herself for conflict.
Steph put the tractor back into gear and continued to plough.
‘Eyes on the back, Stanley.’
Stanley twisted in his seat so his body was facing the tractor’s rear and tried to fix his eyes on the field behind. But he kept glancing across the farmyard to the stranger, who started to walk towards them.
‘Ma, he’s coming!’
‘Eyes to the back! Concentrate on what you need to do!’
Steph was unable to disguise the nervousness in her voice. She could feel her heart beating hard.
‘He knows we’ve seen him. We should stop. We’re only making trouble for ourselves!’
The man continued his inexorable way towards the tractor, stumbling over furrows, twisting his feet free from sticky mud in his bid to proceed. No matter how coated with mud and run-off his shoes and trousers became, he kept walking towards them. When he was within shouting distance he raised his arm and waved a second time.
‘Mrs Farrow! I should like to talk to you! To both of you!’
‘He wants to talk to us. We should stop. Ma?’
Steph didn’t respond so Stanley reached forward and switched off the ignition, yanking out the key.
‘We can’t just ignore him. It’s daft.’
Whatever this stranger represented in relation to the death of the pilot – assuming that was what he was here for – Steph wanted no part of it.
‘Mrs Farrow, my name is Philip Shepherd . . .’ he said, catching up to the tractor. ‘I’m a reporter from the Liverpool Echo. I would like to speak with you about what happened here last week.’
‘He’s a reporter, Ma!’ Stanley whispered in her ear. ‘A reporter!’
Steph felt a shiver of fear shoot down the length of her spine.
‘Mrs Farrow?’
Steph slowly turned in her seat and faced the reporter. He was middle-aged, portly, with an unkempt beard that had spread like topsy across his substantial jowls. His cheeks and nose were red with rosacea from too much beer. His shoes were so covered with mud it was impossible to tell where his feet ended and the earth began, which gave him the appearance of having emerged out of the soil in front of her. His overcoat and trilby were drenched, and clung limply to his stout frame. In appearance, he cut a sorry sight. By contrast, however, his tone was educated and determined.
‘My paper would like to run the story about what happened here last week. We know our readers would love to hear all about your magnificent act of heroism, Mrs Farrow, taking on a Nazi and saving your son. What do you say?’
Steph looked at the reporter as the rain continued to fall.
‘I told the police I didn’t want my identity made public.’
‘That’s what I heard,’ he said. ‘But a story like this has a habit of getting out, one way or another. It’s an amazing tale, Mrs Farrow. Farmer’s wife shoots German pilot to save her son. It’s a tale for our times, don’t you agree?’
‘Do I look like a farmer’s wife up here? Or do I look like a farmer?’
‘Point taken, Mrs Farrow. Both, of course. I didn’t mean to imply—’
‘I don’t want to be in your paper, Mr Shepherd. I don’t want anything more to do with what happened. It’s bad en
ough it did. I want no glorifying of it. I just want me and Stanley to be left alone to get on with running the farm.’
‘I understand that, of course, Mrs Farrow,’ Shepherd said in the syrupy voice of an old pro used to prising stories out of reluctant members of the public. ‘But like I said, we want to run this story, and we have a duty to do so. Think how chuffed your neighbours will be when they find out you were the one who killed him! None of you will ever have to buy a drink in the village pub again.’
Steph looked at Shepherd and couldn’t think what to say that would make him turn around and leave. She could see in his eyes that he had come all the way from Liverpool and was damned if he was going to leave empty-handed.
‘We’re going to run the story, Mrs Farrow. One way or another. Now, it’s your story, and this is your opportunity to tell it. In your own words. Far better than me cobbling it together. Come along now. What do you say?’
Shepherd looked at Steph, unblinking, and smiled at the precise moment his expert eye detected her resolve gave way, and moved in for the kill.
‘You’re clearly an inspiration to your son and husband, Mrs Farrow. But when this gets out, you’ll be an inspiration to every woman in the country.’
‘I don’t want to be an inspiration to every woman in the country. I just want to be left alone.’
‘This was a Nazi sent to drop bombs on us, Mrs Farrow. He got what he deserved. You’re an ordinary woman, salt of the earth, who did something extraordinary. Your story will help other ordinary people believe that they too might be capable of extraordinary things in the difficult times ahead. Let them hear it from your own lips. It’s what the people need to read after a long and terrifying summer. Hitler hasn’t gone away, Mrs Farrow. He’s rebuilding the Luftwaffe as we stand here getting rained on. He’s taken one country after another to the east, and he’s still got his eye on us as a thorn in his side. If he takes us he will have a free hand across the world. People are still very fearful of invasion, Mrs Farrow. Your husband—’
Steph bristled. ‘What’s he got to do with any of this?’
‘He enlisted, didn’t he, Mrs Farrow? I’m assuming he enlisted, otherwise he would be working the farm with you. Think how proud he’ll be to see his mates reading your story in the paper.’
Stanley could scarcely hide his excitement. ‘Will there be a picture?’
Shepherd smiled. ‘Of course, son. I have a camera in my car.’
‘I don’t know anyone who’s had their photograph in the paper, Ma.’
Shepherd understood the need to maintain pressure. People reluctant to talk to the press usually crumbled only when they realised compliance was unavoidable. He could use the son’s excitement to press the mother.
‘I have all the details, Mrs Farrow. I can write the story today. Why not make sure we get it right as far as you and your lad are concerned?’
Steph sighed, and suddenly felt cold and wet. The fight drained from her. Perhaps if she were less tired she might have the strength to tell Shepherd to sling his hook. Stan would likely have run this man off the farm. But Stan wasn’t here, and she lacked the energy to continue to go toe to toe with someone who clearly understood how to get what he wanted.
‘What do I have to do?’ she asked wearily.
‘Simple,’ he said. ‘We go inside. Warm up with a nice cup of tea. Then just tell me what happened and leave the rest to me.’ Shepherd paused momentarily for effect. ‘I give you my absolute word, Mrs Farrow, I’ll do you proud.’
Steph looked at him. She felt her life start to tip over onto its side. There was nothing she could do to stop it.
‘Have there been others, Mrs Farrow? Other papers? What have they offered you, Mrs Farrow? I was told I would have this account as an exclusive, but I wouldn’t put it past the people I have to deal with to sell the same promise to our rivals. What have they offered? Whatever it is, I can match it. For a story like this, we would be prepared to pay. What would you be willing to accept?’
Steph looked at Shepherd and blinked slowly. Great fatigue weighed upon her. All she wanted was for Shepherd to stop talking.
Chapter 5
AS THE EMOTIONAL turbulence of her father’s final days caught up with her, Laura became overwhelmed with fatigue. With no previous experience to draw upon, she had no way of knowing how her father’s funeral would affect her. She knew the ceremony was designed to propel them along a managed pathway to preserve their dignity. But she was unsure whether she would be able to remain managed all the way to the end. She had told herself not to fight the occasion but to try to glide through it as painlessly as possible. Yet Laura had all but collapsed at the sight of her father’s casket being lowered into what Reverend James referred to as ‘his place of rest’. It didn’t look like a place of rest to Laura. It looked like an empty hole in the ground that had been crudely hacked out by gravediggers.
Despite her best efforts, Laura only managed an hour at the wake before it became evident to Erica that the occasion was proving too much for her youngest daughter, and sent her upstairs to rest.
‘She’s overwhelmed,’ Laura overheard Erica telling their guests as she went upstairs. ‘They were extremely close.’
Laura lay on her side on her bed with the light off and stared at the wall. The indistinct murmur of visitors downstairs filtered up through the floorboards and under her bedroom door. She curled herself into a tight ball and willed them all to go away.
She wasn’t sure how long she lay there when a knock interrupted her mourning.
‘Who is it?’ she said, turning towards the door
‘Someone to see you,’ said her mother from the other side.
Laura wiped her face with the heels of her hands and crossed to the door and opened it. Erica stood alone on the landing.
‘Tom was on his way to report for duty at Tabley Wood but wanted to stop by and pay his respects, and see how you were. I can ask him to come back another time if you’d prefer.’
Laura thought for a moment. She really wanted to see no one, but if Tom had made the effort to come to the house and enquire after her it would be rude not to show her face and accept his condolences.
Laura came down the stairs a minute after Erica, and found Tom standing in the hall, looking into the front room where various villagers reminisced about her father’s medical brilliance. She was struck by Tom’s stoic stillness as he waited in his RAF uniform, while others milled around with drinks and sandwiches and all manner of sombre expressions on their faces.
As soon as he heard Laura’s footsteps on the stairs Tom turned his head and smiled at her.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d come down,’ he said as she reached the bottom. ‘I wouldn’t have blamed you. I’m sorry, I can’t stay longer.’
‘Why don’t I walk you to your car?’ Laura suggested.
‘Not much of a walk.’
‘Then we’ll just have to go very, very, very, very slowly,’ said Laura, putting on her coat and opening the front door.
It felt good to escape the house. Tom’s RAF car stood at the bottom of the Campbells’ front path, a mere fifteen yards away.
‘I just wanted to say how extraordinarily sorry I am at your loss, Laura. Your father was – as you’ve heard many times today no doubt – a wonderful man.’
‘Yes,’ Laura said impassively. ‘Thank you.’
‘Did you know I was at the station when he hit Wing Commander Bowers? I saw it all,’ Tom said. ‘It was all I could do to stop myself cheering.’
‘I’m not sure it was very productive,’ Laura said.
‘Perhaps not,’ said Tom. ‘But if nothing else, punching a Wing Commander in the mouth on an RAF station to defend the honour of his daughter took a tremendous amount of spunk.’
Laura hadn’t thought of it like that.
‘Anyhow,’ Tom said, ‘that’s all I came to say.’
‘Thank you.’
‘That and I wanted to let you know I’m around if you ever need to ta
lk. Or even if you just need taking out of yourself for an hour or two. We could go for a walk, or something like that.’
Laura looked at Tom and nodded. ‘Thanks. I’d like that,’ she said.
‘Excellent,’ he said. And then again, ‘Excellent.’
Laura stepped forward and kissed him on the lips, softly, pressing hers onto his for a few moments to make the point of how much she liked him. She then stepped back and smiled at him. He looked back and smiled, pleased that she felt for him what he felt for her. Suddenly, he checked his watch.
‘Christ – I’m so late!’
‘Tell your boss you were saying hello to the daughter of the man who punched his predecessor in the mouth – I’m sure you’ll be forgiven,’ Laura said.
Tom pulled Laura to him and kissed her. ‘I miss you,’ he said. ‘An extraordinary amount.’
‘Good,’ she said, and kissed him again. ‘Now go to work. Don’t you know there’s a war on?’
He grinned and walked to his car, got in, started the engine, and roared away.
Laura stood on the front path listening to the drone of Tom’s engine fade into silence. She looked up into the cold, dead, starry sky. It was a struggle for her to put mortality into any kind of context, but the finality of her father’s absence was beginning to sink in. ‘Forever’ meant nothing that ever happened with him could ever happen again. No sight nor sound of him. No touch nor smell of him. Her father had been wiped from the earth.
She wondered how she would feel every time she went to church, or cycled past.
Will I stop and visit his grave each time? Will I try, but fall out of the habit, and then possibly forget he is there at all?
‘Never . . .’ she said out loud, the word forming a fine, cold mist in front of her.
Laura was suddenly aware of a pair of hands resting on her shoulders, and turned to find Erica standing behind her.