by Roland Moore
By the time PC Thorne got to Shallow Brook Farm, he found Vernon Storey sitting in his armchair reading the newspaper, as if nothing had happened. He seemed surprised to see the policeman and, initially, Vernon tried to lie his way out of any accusations.
“No, I’ve not seen Iris Dawson. She’s not been here. You must be mistaken.”
“Come on, now, Vernon. We’ve got someone who heard everything. A young girl was in this room.” PC Thorne noticed that the telephone had been righted on the table. He wondered whether Vernon would continue to brave-face the situation, but then Vernon’s studied act broke down.
Vernon got up from his chair. “Why can’t you all leave me alone?”
“Sorry, Vernon. You’ve got to come with me.”
“I suppose.”
Vernon stretched his arms in front of him, as if inviting PC Thorne to restrain his hands. It seemed as if he was seeing sense now. But as Thorne turned to apply the handcuffs, the farmer pushed him backwards as hard as he could. PC Thorne fell, hitting his head on the fireplace. And although he wasn’t knocked out, by the time he got to his feet, Vernon already had a head start and was fleeing across the yard. PC Thorne yelled for him to stop, but by the time he reached the lane, it was empty. PC Thorne knew that Vernon must be hiding, but he didn’t know in which direction. He tried to search as methodically and quickly as he could, peering over the hedgerows and looking over fences. But after about thirty minutes, he realised that Vernon had somehow managed to elude him. Defeated and worried, he trudged back to the police station.
Wanted posters were put up around Helmstead and neighbouring Brinford; PC Thorne checked outbuildings for weeks afterwards; and Reverend Henry Jameson made repeated entreaties to his flock to come forward with information, but Vernon Storey wasn’t seen again. It was as if he had vanished off the face of the earth.
Chapter 1
Several weeks after Walter Storey’s funeral, a dance hall reverberated with music and laughter. Times like these were precious, joyful releases after days spent under the spectre of war. The hall was hot and sticky, thanks to the combination of an uncharacteristically sultry evening and the gyrations of the many Land Girls and American soldiers crammed into the small space. But, despite the heat, everyone was determined to make the best of it; a few hours off the leash, dressed in their finery, flirting and having fun. A few hours to forget about the war and remember what it was like to be carefree, feeling the exhilaration of a warm body pressed against yours as you twirled and attempted to follow the steps of the dance.
Although she wasn’t dancing, Iris Dawson was enjoying sitting on the edge of the action, her leg tapping in time to the beat. She had an awkwardness and lack of confidence that people either found frustrating or endearing. Iris felt she didn’t quite fit in. She didn’t know how to put on makeup, despite her mother’s best efforts to teach her back at home, so she chose not to wear any most of the time. Tonight, though, she had experimented with some of Connie Carter’s red lipstick, but with no guidance, she suspected she looked as though she had been messily eating cherries. Tonight was a blessed break from her troubles, and the two shillings admission price was well worth a night off from her thoughts. Iris was paid twenty-eight shillings a week and after bed and board she was left with half of that. She viewed it as her payment for the back-breaking work in the fields, payment for the aching legs, sunburned shoulders, blistered feet and sore hands. She would send as much of the money home as she could, but she knew her mother would be pleased if she spent some of it on herself for once.
Iris was laughing and joking with her fellow Land Girls, Joyce Fisher and Connie Carter, who were sitting next to her. A row of contented wallflowers. To Joyce’s amusement, Connie was refusing a dance with another hopeful soldier. Sitting near the small, but loud, dance band, Connie would struggle to make herself heard. But a quick flash of her wedding ring, with a smile, usually deflected even the most persistent would-be suitor.
“Sorry, I’m spoken for.”
The soldier smiled back and said something that Iris couldn’t hear. She guessed by the shape of the words it was: “That’s a real pity”.
Like so many others before him that evening, he trudged the walk of shame back to his mates at the makeshift bar, where they perused the room for other prospective dance dates. If she’d felt so inclined, Connie could have marked her dance card with a long list of rejections as she was racking them up so fast. It was plain to see that Connie was breathtakingly beautiful, with long black hair styled into loose waves, unblemished skin and full, red lips. Iris couldn’t blame the men for trying. She liked having Connie as her friend; a worldly young woman who had seen more of life than Iris could ever imagine. Connie was both fun to be with and a friendly source of advice. As Iris’s mother would have said, Connie had an old head on young shoulders. For her part, Iris was far less experienced in dealing with life. She had no experience of men and had come from a sheltered upbringing in Northampton, living with her caring, but slightly distant, mother. So being in the big, wide world, billeted to Pasture Farm, had been a big shock to Iris. It was her first time living away from home; the first time she’d lived with a group of women thrown together from all corners of England, from all walks of life. And it was her first experience of back-breaking farm work.
Iris had been asked twice to dance, but she had demurely refused, knowing that across the room, Martin Reeves looked as though he was plucking up courage to ask her. She didn’t want to quash his hopes or put him off by dancing with someone else. She liked Martin, but she wished he’d find the courage soon. He had always been slim, but the last few months had seen him bulk out slightly, the effect of constant manual labour on the farm. He’d gone from looking like a boy to a well-proportioned young man, a wave of sandy hair parted casually across his forehead, his brown eyes burning with life. Idly, she wondered if she could will him to ask her, as seeing his hopeful eyes and nervous face was making her feel uncomfortable. Maybe if she thought really hard and imagined him walking over, it would happen! She had tried offering an encouraging smile a few times, but it hadn’t done the trick yet. Also across the room was Frederick Finch, the ebullient, portly, middle-aged tenant farmer who ran Pasture Farm. Looking as if he’d been tipped into his clothes, he was nursing two half-full pint glasses (for some unexplained reason) and talking to another middle-aged man about something that involved a lot of red-faced guffawing. Iris thought the conversation was probably revolving around some scam or dodgy deal. That’s what Finch liked to do. His small victories in war time, as he called them. Finch was a good man at heart and Iris felt warmly towards him. In some ways he was a father-away-from home, someone who would look out for her, someone who would make sure she was all right.
The band started playing ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’, a song that Iris loathed. She stopped tapping her leg in time; her own small, personal protest.
She noticed a tall, handsome soldier looking her way. Iris glanced around to her side, in puzzlement. Surely he must be eyeing someone behind her? Maybe he was looking at Connie and not at her? But no, his gaze was definitely fixed on her. And what a gaze it was - steely, intense eyes that somehow conveyed both intelligence and warmth were looking her way. Iris felt her cheeks flushing. He continued to look, flashing a confident smile. He was a tall, rangy young man with straight, straw-coloured hair and piercing green eyes; a catch by anyone’s standards. Joyce noticed and nudged Iris, just in case she was somehow unaware of the young man’s interest.
“I know,” Iris whispered, feeling uncomfortable from the attention.
She risked a look up to meet the soldier’s gaze, and to her surprise found that he was a few feet away, walking confidently towards her. Iris felt churned up; a mix of nervousness, excitement and confusion fighting for attention in the pit of her stomach. Her mouth felt very dry all of a sudden and she wondered if she would be able to talk.
“Hey? I’m Joe.” The soldier smiled, extending his hand to shake hers. “P
rivate First Class Joe Batch.”
Iris was aware that Connie and Joyce were transfixed by this development and she struggled to shut them out of her peripheral vision and concentrate on Joe.
“Hello, Joe. I’m Iris. Iris Dawson,” she stammered.
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Yes.” Iris felt awkward. She was dimly aware of Martin Reeves looking downcast across the room. Feeling a stab of pain, she noticed as he turned on his heels, pushing past some people and left the hall.
“Would you like to dance?” Joe Batch smiled, seemingly unaware of her nervousness.
“No,” Iris replied. “I mean no, thank you. I don’t like this song.”
Joe laughed. Iris found herself smiling.
“Dance anyway,” Joyce said under her breath, indicating with her eyes that Iris should just get up.
Iris nodded. “I suppose I can make an exception.”
“Glad to hear it,” Joe said, leading her onto the floor. “We can always pretend we’re dancing to something else. What tunes do you like?”
“Anything.” Iris smiled. “Apart from this.”
They moved in time to the music, Joe holding her a respectful distance away. He seemed to behave like a gentleman. Not like some of the drunken soldiers in here, who were grabbing at women as if it was the last days of Rome. As they danced, Iris worried that her hands were clammy. She didn’t want clammy hands, but she couldn’t help feeling nervous. She wasn’t used to dancing with men, feeling their proximity to her. Joe smiled at her. It was too noisy to talk, but when the dance had finished, he held her hands and looked at her.
“Thanks for that. You did pretty good considering you hate the song.”
“Thanks. You were leading me, doing most of the work.”
They walked to the bar and, without asking, Joe ordered two jugs of cider. He handed one to Iris and she looked into the cloudy, orange liquid, the smell of apples filling her nostrils. It wasn’t the time to tell Joe Batch that she had never had a drink before, was it? Part of her was desperate to show that she was a grown up and that taking a drink with a gentleman suitor was par for the course. Before she had time to think too much, Joe clinked his glass to hers. She mirrored his actions as he put his glass to his lips and took a big gulp. Iris struggled not to pull a disparaging face when she tasted the liquid herself. It was warm and tasted of apple juice, but there was a kick to it. Joe gulped down his pint in a few seconds. Iris didn’t think she could manage that, so she continued to sip at hers. She knew that was what a lady would do.
“I have to go. We’re up early tomorrow.”
“Sure,” Iris said, feeling disappointment. Despite her nerves, she had enjoyed the experience and she was quite keen to dance some more with him.
“But would it be forward to ask if I could see you sometime?” Joe said.
Iris hadn’t been expecting that. She felt flustered. “All right,” she said. “I’m stationed at Pasture Farm.”
“I’ll swing by sometime. If that’s okay?”
“That’s okay,” Iris said.
Joe Batch nodded and smiled, clearly pleased with the outcome. He tipped his head to her and made his way out from the hall. Feeling giddy, Iris returned to her seat with her half-finished drink, where her friends were keen for the gossip about what had happened. After Iris filled them in, Joyce and Connie were pleased for her. She found all the attention a bit bewildering and was grateful that no one else came over to ask her to dance. The experience had exhausted her. She contented herself with thinking about Joe Batch, finishing her cider and watching what else was going on in the room.
Near the door, enjoying the cooler air from outside, were a few people that Iris had never seen before. One of them was a glamorous but understated woman in her early fifties with blonde hair. When these people had arrived, Iris had asked the others who they were. But Connie and Joyce didn’t know. Iris had pointed the glamorous woman out to Joyce, and Joyce, being a hair-dresser before the war, had commented that it was natural blonde hair. She was lucky. A lot of her clients would pay money to have their mousy hair turned that colour.
The woman sipped at a small glass of rhubarb wine and winced at the taste. Iris noticed that she was scanning the room, like the soldiers were. But unlike the soldiers, with their scattergun approach to seeing what available talent was out there, she seemed to be looking for one particular person. Searching, she would turn quickly away from unwanted faces before eye contact could be returned. From her vantage point across the room, Iris was mildly amused when the woman found herself staring directly at Mrs Gladys Gulliver. The sour face of the town busybody and self-appointed moral compass of Helmstead stopped the woman in her tracks. Mrs Gulliver frowned at the stranger in front of her. The fact was that Gladys Gulliver was perhaps only five years older than the blonde woman, but the choices they had made in life, not to mention differing approaches to fashion and makeup, showed that they were on very different paths. Mrs Gulliver had made a typical, snap judgement about the blonde woman before her. A judgement that, knowing Mrs Gulliver, probably involved an inner monologue including the words ‘brassy’ and ‘tart’.
But then Iris noticed something unusual happen.
The stranger spoke to Mrs Gulliver and the busybody cracked a smile and actually laughed. The woman held Mrs Gulliver’s arm as she added something to the joke and Mrs Gulliver laughed again. Iris was shocked that this had happened. She’d never seen Mrs Gulliver smile like that. She tended to smile only if it involved someone else’s misfortune.
“Here look, Mrs Gulliver’s made a friend!” Iris said to Joyce.
“It’s her long-lost sister.” Joyce looked over and smiled.
“Really?”
“No!” Joyce laughed. “You’ll believe anything, you will. I’ve no idea who that woman is. But you know what?”
“What?”
“I’m sure Mrs Gulliver will tell us!” The girls laughed.
Iris couldn’t hear what was being said between Mrs Gulliver and the other woman. She turned back to Joyce, who continued their conversation, forgetting about the momentary distraction. So Iris didn’t notice the blonde woman again that night, and promptly forgot about her; just another face in the crowd. Iris found that her attention was taken by two American servicemen, who were engaged in a heated argument on the dance floor. A young woman, caught in the middle, looked sheepishly at the pair of them, wishing she was anywhere else.
At the bar, the blonde woman was busy charming her new friend, Mrs Gulliver. She had bought her a sherry and they were raising a glass together. And then the woman leaned in close.
“I suppose you know everyone here?”
“What do you mean?” Mrs Gulliver bristled a little, taking it as an insult. She was aware of her own reputation in the village, and whereas she liked to think of her inquisitive nature as a way of cementing community life through vigilance and sharing information, she knew that others viewed her as plain nosey.
“Oh, I didn’t mean anything by that.” The stranger smiled. “Just that you’ve been in the village a while and know these people.”
“That’s right.” Mrs Gulliver smiled back, dropping her defensiveness. “That man over there -” She pointed to a dishevelled man in a badly fitting tweed suit. “He’s the village doctor. Dreadful drunk. I won’t let him examine me. His hands are everywhere.” And then she pointed out a thin, statuesque woman standing on the periphery, dressed more expensively than anyone else present. “And that’s our ladyship. Lady Hoxley. This is her idea, this dance.”
“To raise money for her Spitfire Fund?” The blonde woman asked, glancing at the refined beauty of Ellen Hoxley.
“That’s right. She’s a good woman. Lost her husband. Terrible business. It’s too long a story to go into now, but suffice to say it involved another woman.” Mrs Gulliver mouthed the words ‘other woman’ for reasons known only to herself. Then the older woman sipped her sherry and took a deep breath. She was about to embark on the
details of that ‘terrible business’ anyway, but the stranger realised that the story might take some time. And time wasn’t something she had.
“And who’s that? Is that Freddie Finch?” The blonde woman said, pointing across the room.
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“No. I know of him.” The woman laughed. “I’ve heard stories.”
“Yes, well,” Mrs Gulliver said, looking with disdain as Finch worked the two pints in his hands, alternating a sip from each as he lost himself in the music. “Everyone knows him. He’s a disgrace, that one. Ran over my vegetable patch in his tractor, he did. He’d been sleeping in the pub. Blind drunk, he was. I made him repair the damage, mind.”
But the blonde woman wasn’t listening any more. She was already setting off across the room. “I’ve got to meet that man,” she muttered under her breath, earning a baffled stare from Mrs Gulliver. But then Mrs Gulliver knew that people were strange.
The stranger straightened her blouse and gave her hair an imperceptible lift with her hand as she got nearer to Freddie Finch. He was watching the events on the dance floor, so he didn’t notice her approaching. She was only two feet away from him, and about to speak, when the two soldiers who had been arguing flew in a messy heap of fighting limbs into a nearby table. Finch held his pint glasses high, out of harm’s way, as other people scattered while the two men fought on the floor, knocking over chairs and tables. The girl who had been with them was screaming at them to stop. Connie and Joyce rolled their eyes. This was a fairly typical event thanks to the combination of alcohol and high spirits. Lady Hoxley ran across the room to the fracas, two military policemen in tow. She wasn’t going to stand for it. The band stopped playing and the lights were turned up, the party over in an instant.
The blonde woman stood for a moment, contemplating the situation. Finch was edging away from the fracas, pints in hand, as if he was expecting to get the blame somehow.