by Roland Moore
Nothing.
Esther tried the handle. It was locked. She sighed, cursing Iris under her breath. What had she told them about locking doors? If anything happened, there was no way to get inside to them. Esther rapped on the door.
“Come on, Iris! Move your bones!”
Joyce and Dolores were packing tools onto a wheelbarrow when they caught sight of a strange figure in the far corner of the yard. They nudged each other and stifled their urge to laugh. It was Finch, dressed in his best suit and wearing his freshly pressed shirt. He straightened his collar and pulled his jacket around his portly frame. He cleared his throat.
“May I have the pleasure?” he asked, offering his hands outstretched.
“What’s he doing?” Dolores asked.
But Joyce couldn’t see past Finch’s ample body to see who he was talking to. Then Finch twirled around and Joyce had to stifle another giggle. The farmer had a broom in his arms and was dancing across the yard, eyes closed in solemn concentration. Joyce pressed a hand against Dolores, forcing them both out of view behind a tractor. She knew Finch would be embarrassed if he was caught practising his dance moves.
As Joyce and Dolores walked to the fields, Joyce commented that she thought it was sweet that Finch had found someone else. He’d been a widower for years and years, since his son, Billy, was born. Finally he had found a new person to share things with. Joyce wondered to herself whether she could ever love anyone besides her beloved John. It seemed unlikely. She and John had been childhood sweethearts, marrying before the war started. It had been their love that had saved them from dying, when the Coventry bombings occurred, Joyce had been with John in Birmingham. Joyce had lost her entire family that night as her family home had been levelled by German bombs. When she returned to the devastated streets of her home town, John had helped her sift through the wretched remains of her house, finding such grim artefacts as Joyce’s sister’s dress and the front of the radio that had been in the front parlour. John had been there to comfort her. Such was their bond that Joyce found it physically painful when John joined the RAF, flying dangerous bombing missions of his own.
But now John was back home. And closer than ever. John Fisher had been invalided out of service and was now doing his bit by trying to run the neighbouring Shallow Brook Farm. Vernon’s old farm.
Esther rapped again on Iris’s bedroom door. Where was that girl?
A few seconds’ silence, but then the sound of the bolt being slipped back.
A sleepy Iris Dawson opened the door. Seeing Esther’s face with its stern expression told her all she needed to know about what time it was. “You’re late. Again,” Esther said. Iris ran in a panic back into the room, hoisting her nightdress over her head as she went.
“Sorry, Esther. I really am,” Iris said, her voice muffled by the garment covering her face. “I had a nightmare and then I couldn’t get back to sleep.”
“I don’t want your excuses.” Esther went to the chest of drawers and looked for a shirt for the girl. The drawers were empty. Esther glanced at the chair in the corner of the room, where a small pile of unwashed laundry formed a fabric hillock. Oblivious to this, Iris was fastening her bra.
“You don’t have any clean shirts,” Esther said, plucking her way through the clothes. It was the girls’ responsibility to ensure that their clothing was put out for washing. Esther would clean their uniforms, but she wasn’t going to go hunting for shirts and trousers around the house.
“This one will have to do,” Iris replied, taking one at random.
“I want you to sort all of this out tonight, you hear?” Esther scolded. “Never mind seeing Frank Tucker tonight. This is more important.”
Iris nodded meekly as she fastened a shirt that had a beetroot stain on the left breast pocket.
“And we need to talk about you and your attitude.”
“I haven’t got an attitude,” Iris replied.
“You’re a girl who wakes late every morning and whose mind isn’t on the job. That’s attitude, in my book.” And Esther was gone. Her technique in these situations was to let the other person think about her words for most of the day. She was always letting people stew. Iris sighed, searching the pile for a pair of trousers that weren’t too muddy. Her head was throbbing and her throat felt dry. She cursed herself for drinking. She guessed that Esther was right. She had been late most mornings. But she couldn’t help it.
By lunchtime, her throbbing headache had blossomed into a bloom of pain in her temples and Iris was grateful to be asked to clear some fallen branches in the East Field, a location remote enough from the farmhouse to allow her a few minutes’ breather. She picked up some sticks and started to assemble a pile that could be used as firewood. Some of the larger branches had to be stripped of leaves before they could be used. Iris used a small knife to cut them away. Finally by mid-afternoon, the relaxed pace of her own work and the silence of being alone had eased the pain in her head. Iris felt tired and decided she wouldn’t drink tonight. That had been a mistake. But the drink had helped her get to sleep, shutting out the fears racing around her brain. She wouldn’t drink again. But, of course, it was easy to keep such a promise in a sunny field in the afternoon. It was far more difficult to stick to promises at night, when every creak on the stairs or every shifting shadow could terrify her.
I will come for you, Iris. Mark my words.
And her nightmares and imagination were becoming more vivid and disturbing. Iris wished that she could stop thinking about him. But her mind just wouldn’t stop. Each time she looked in the bathroom mirror, she would scare herself by imagining Vernon’s face in the reflection. Iris tried to put the thoughts out of her mind. She continued her work, keen to fill her thoughts with the business of firewood collection and leaf stripping. Keep your mind on the things you can control. But things had been slowly getting out of control. The nightmares were causing problems. Cracks were starting to show. Maybe a little drink to control things wasn’t such a bad idea …
Suddenly she heard a twig crack.
“Hello?” Iris shouted, fear taking hold of her. Had she seen a man walk behind a tree? Get a grip, Iris. She bent down and picked up a solid length of branch, brandishing it like a club. She edged towards where she thought she had seen a man hiding.
It must be a trick of the light. An overactive imagination, that’s all. There wouldn’t be anyone there, not this far out.
Could there?
Feeling the thump-thump of her heart in her chest, Iris reached the tree. She was just about to rush behind it when a man’s hands thrust out at her. Iris cracked the tree branch across his knuckles.
“Youch!” Private First Class Joe Batch shouted.
Iris dropped the stick and rushed to help him. His fingers were red, but the skin was unbroken.
“So sorry!”
“What the hell are you -?”
“I might ask you the same thing!” Iris stormed, anger coming to the fore. “Why were you creeping up on me?”
“I was trying to surprise you,” Joe admitted.
“I think I surprised you more.” Iris smiled kindly, her fury subsiding. “Come over to the farmhouse and I’ll get Esther to look at your fingers.”
“They’re okay, no real damage.” Joe grinned. “This is all part of getting to know you. For instance, I know you ain’t the type of girl who likes surprises. Logged and recorded.”
“I don’t mind surprises. Just don’t like strange men creeping up on me.”
“Strange?”
“You know what I mean.”
Joe nodded, as if conceding it was a fair enough point. Then, seeing the Land Girls in the distance and knowing that Iris might have to get back to work, he decided that he’d better get to the matter in hand, the reason for his visit.
“I came to see if you fancied coming to the pictures on Friday night?”
“What’s on?”
“Does it matter?” Joe said, amused.
“Yes,” Iris said,
confused. She felt out of her depth. Her experience of men could be written on a very small piece of card. Was this part of flirting? She had no real idea, but she decided that she kind of enjoyed it. It was fun when she’d referred to him as strange and she guessed that was flirting, wasn’t it? “I mean, we should know what we’re going to see.”
“It’s a Gary Cooper. Does that win your approval?”
“Possibly,” Iris said, thinking fast as to what Connie might say in this situation. She decided a joke was in order. “Depends if there’s a supporting feature.”
“Newsreels?”
Iris pondered this with mock severity before agreeing, “Sold. It’s a deal.”
“It’s a date.” Joe Batch smiled and started to head off across the fields. Iris watched him go, proud that she had a date to look forward to, and proud that she had managed to flirt with him without becoming tongue-tied. Being around Connie must be rubbing off on her. It was reassuring that Joe was interested in her after all. Something to take her mind off Vernon, at least.
Later, as the rest of the girls stopped for a breather and mug of tea, Iris wandered away, not in the mood to talk. She looked at the folded-up letter that she had started to write with Frank. She felt joy in her heart that day for the image of her mother reading it. Iris sat by a tree, the sun dappling her face through the canopy of leaves. She was dimly aware of the chatter of the other girls by the tractor. They were discussing a trip to the flicks. It seemed that Joyce was keen to see the new Gary Cooper too. Dolores had more mundane concerns and was wondering why her tea tasted funny. Their voices became a low buzz of reassuring noise in Iris’s ears, the warmth of the sun feeling good against her face. She felt herself relaxing, her eyes drooping shut. She didn’t fight it. It would only be a little doze for a few minutes …
Except it wasn’t.
“Iris!” Connie shouted, “Wake up!”
Iris awoke with a start to see an angry-looking Connie looming over her. “It’s nearly supper time.”
Iris realised that the sky was a darker blue than it had been before. How long had she been asleep? Connie was already marching away, back towards the farmhouse, in no mood for a discussion. “I’ve got to meet Henry tonight. Got better things to do than search for you.”
And Connie shouted back to an unseen group as loudly as she could. “Found her!”
With growing unease, Iris realised that other figures were dotted around the edges of the East Field. Joyce, Dolores and a thunder-faced Esther, who was making a beeline across to her. The last vestiges of sleepiness fell instantly away. Oh God.
“We need to talk, young lady. No excuses. We need to find out what’s going on!”
As night descended, Esther, Frank and Joyce sat around the kitchen table. A subdued Iris sat at the end of the table, her throbbing headache having returned with a vengeance. She nursed a small glass of water as the stern faces around her tried to work out what to do. Esther had sent Martin off to find Finch, as everyone thought he should be here for this meeting. This examination. Iris knew that Finch would be annoyed to be pulled away from his afternoon date. This wasn’t going to end well for her.
“You’re our friend, Iris. Tell us what’s on your mind?” Joyce implored.
“I don’t know,” Iris mumbled. Esther rolled her eyes. She wasn’t in the mood for vague answers, or winkling the truth out of people. She wanted something concrete that she could work with. If it was a problem with being bullied or a problem caused by overwork, then Esther could sort that out and help fix it. But she needed something tangible to go on. Evasive answers were no use at all.
Esther pulled something from under the table and placed it for all to see. It was Billy Finch’s bottle of carrot whisky.
“You’ve been drinking in your room!” Esther thundered.
“It’s not mine.”
“That’s as maybe. But look -”
And Esther turned the bottle around. On the side was a black line near the neck of the bottle. The level of the orange liquid was a long way below it. “Billy marked this, so I know it’s gone down since you’ve been in that room.”
Iris slumped.
“Tell them what’s troubling you, Iris,” Frank said. He nodded his head and gave a half-smile by way of encouragement. He knew what it was, but he wanted Iris to tell it in her own words. To tell the others. “Tell them why you needed a drink. A problem shared and all that.”
“Well?” Esther asked.
Iris took a deep breath. “I think Vernon’s coming back for me.”
She felt the mix of reactions in the room. Esther’s slight snort that betrayed disbelief, Joyce’s concerned face and Frank’s impassive reaction. He’d heard Iris voice these worries before, during their writing lessons in the shed. Iris went on to say she felt ridiculous. She knew he was gone but it was just that each time she was alone, she’d think about him. And his final words.
“I’ll come back for you, Iris.”
It was like a dark promise. And no matter how she tried to rationalise it, she couldn’t make it fade from her mind. He promised to come back and it terrified her.
“He’s not coming back. That’s the end of it. Now pull yourself together,” Esther said. “You’ve got to get a grip on your thoughts and stop them running away with you, young lady!”
“But what if he does come back?” Iris replied. She could feel rawness at the back of her throat. She was ready to cry. Why did she think they would understand when she knew herself it sounded ridiculous? “Part of me wants to do something and find him first, but I know I can’t do that. And I know I’m being stupid, but I just can’t stop it.” And then the tears came, as if vocalising her fears had broken down any last control over her thoughts. The sobbing was loud, wretched. A shocked Joyce put a comforting hand on her friend’s wrist, but still the tears came.
Esther turned to Frank and Joyce. “I’ll see the doctor and find out if he can give her something to calm her down.”
“I just need …” But Iris trailed off. That was the problem. What did she need? The problem wouldn’t be fixed by having a stronger lock on her bedroom door. It was something inside her head. The last words of a murderer. The promise. She knew the nightmares would continue, even though she desperately wanted them to end.
Eyes blurred with tears, Iris scraped her chair back on the tiled floor and went to her room. Ignoring Esther’s calls to come back. Iris slammed the door behind her and felt torn that she wasn’t allowed to lock it tonight. She slumped on the bed. And then she found her reddened eyes drawn towards the wardrobe. Logic told her that she shouldn’t drink tonight. But she felt so wretched and desperate. And then she remembered that Esther had the bottle. Iris thought for a moment, and then, knowing that Finch kept more of his whisky under the stairs, Iris crept back down. She could hear the voices talking softly with concern beyond in the kitchen. Stealthily, she opened the cupboard under the stairs, reached in and took a full bottle of whisky. She scurried back to her room, closed the door and then opened the bottle, ready for its reassurance of numbing oblivion.
Finch placed his pint glass down, its sides etched with thin, cloud formations of beer foam. He was aware that he was drinking faster than his companion. Evelyn Gray had barely finished a quarter of her small glass of cider. Finch resolved to slow down. The problem was that his nerves meant he needed something to do with his hands, and that meant lifting the glass up and down to his lips and before he knew it, it was gone! Glancing around the room of the snug bar in the Bottle and Glass, he suddenly envied the men smoking cigarettes. They always had something to do with their hands, the performance of rolling a cigarette, lighting it, smoking it. Finch wished that he could smoke. But the truth was he had never got on with it, finding that the smallest puff would reduce him to a hacking, retching wreck. And that wasn’t the ideal look he wanted to achieve on a night like this. An evening with his new lady friend, Evelyn.
Evelyn Gray was glamorous, but not in an over-the-top way. She was we
ll turned-out in the latest fashions, but she wore them with a dignity that befitted a lady in her early fifties. Thick, naturally blonde hair was pinned into curls on her head, and her blue eyes stared at Finch with warmth and a hint of intriguing mystery. Finch wished he knew what women thought about. He knew he was thinking about whether to have another pint of beer: simple, straightforward thoughts for a simple man. But he guessed that a woman like Evelyn was thinking deeper thoughts than that. She was probably going over Churchill’s latest address to the nation or thinking about the logistics of rationing.
“Would you like another drink, Evelyn?” Finch stammered.
“I’ve still got this one, Fred.” She giggled.
Finch giggled too. He felt suddenly foolish, suddenly aware of his awkwardness and clumsy nature. His collar suddenly felt very warm and tight around his neck. The truth was, he felt out of his depth with this attractive, clever woman. Finch searched his brain for something to talk about. Something clever. Something that would impress her. Maybe he could tell her about the growing patterns of the turnip? He frowned inwardly at his own brain trying to make him look stupid. He was doing badly without further self-sabotage. But thankfully, Evelyn was quite capable of offering a conversational topic of her own.
“So tell me more about Pasture Farm. How long have you been there?”
“Came there after the war,” Finch said, before needlessly correcting himself. “The last one, not this one.”
“Of course.” Evelyn smiled.
Finch was grateful that he could make her laugh. He continued his story, feeling suddenly wistful for those lost days. “After it was all over, I was looking for work. Ended up at the farm working as a labourer. The farmer in charge, a chap called Godfrey, taught me everything I know and most of what I’ve forgotten. When he died, Lady Hoxley asked if I wanted to try running the place on my own. And that’s where I’ve been ever since. I’ve seen some times there, at Pasture Farm. Got married there. Saw my son being born there. My wife passing away. Watched my son go off to a war of his own. We had a big going-away party for that …”