by Roland Moore
“Do you ever get letters?” Iris asked.
“No.” Martin shook his head. Now it was his turn to not want to continue talking. They walked in amiable silence for a moment, until Iris saw a silhouette ahead of them. On the edge of the field, a black shape broke the line of neat hedge-shaped shadows. It was a man. The shadow of a short man. Iris didn’t scream, but she felt a sharp exhalation of air leave her lungs. It was enough of a sound for Martin to glance in her direction. But Iris couldn’t say anything. She was staring at the figure. He wore suit trousers and a pullover, a shirt underneath. She knew who wore clothes like those.
It was Vernon Storey.
Iris blinked and when she opened her eyes again, Vernon was gone. He’d never been there. A scarecrow stood wearing trousers, pullover and a shirt, its black button eyes sewn onto a hessian face.
“What’s wrong?” Martin asked.
“I thought it was - a man,” Iris said, pointing at the scarecrow.
“It’s got some of Vernon’s clothes on it.” Martin walked up to the blank-eyed figure and put his arm around it. Something ran out from one of the feet of the scarecrow and brushed against Iris’s shoes. It was probably a rat.
“It made me jump, that’s all.”
They continued to walk to the farmhouse. Iris risked a final look back at the scarecrow.
I will come for you, Iris. Mark my words!
In her imagination, the words whispered through the night air, barely there. When they reached the house, Martin and Iris stopped. Martin smiled awkwardly.
“Thanks for walking me back, Martin,” Iris said, opening the door.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at Shallow Brook,” he said, heading off with a spring in his step. Iris went inside the farmhouse, finding the kitchen deserted and lit just by a candle on the table. As she filled a mug with water from the tap, she was aware of Finch and Esther walking back into the kitchen. They were mid-conversation, although it sounded more like an argument. Esther gave the briefest of nods to acknowledge Iris, and then continued with what she was saying.
“As if I don’t have enough to do,” Esther said sulkily.
“Well, I’ll help,” Finch offered, eager to appease. “I can peel some spuds. Or wash the cabbage or something.”
“I’m just not happy, Fred. I didn’t plan on being housekeeper for you and your lady friend.” And then Esther continued out into the yard, taking some rubbish with her. Finch rolled his eyes at Iris, as if bemoaning his lot and Esther’s lack of understanding.
“What’s this?” Iris asked, finishing her mug of water.
“Evelyn is coming for tea. Well, dinner. She thinks it’ll be a dinner. And I want to make a good impression.”
“You will.”
“Not without any cooking on, I won’t!” He slumped in one of the chairs at the table. “Oh, I wish I could cook, and I’d do it myself.” Then his eyes started to gleam and he looked up at her. Iris knew exactly where this was leading, what idea he was about to suggest. “You couldn’t have a word with Esther, could you?”
“I don’t know.” Iris winced at the prospect of that difficult conversation.
“Don’t know what?” Esther said, returning from the yard.
“Don’t know if -” Iris searched for a white lie, but found nothing. “Don’t know if I wouldn’t mind helping get things ready for Evelyn.” And there it was, out in the open, an offer to help cater for the impending dinner. Esther shrugged, accepting this, and Finch looked pleased. This had worked out better than he’d hoped. Now he knew the meal would be a success.
The next day, at the Manor House, Joe sat at the end of Chuck Wellings’ bed. Neither were in much of a mood for talking. Joe was still agonising about his behaviour the previous evening after the cinema and Chuck was nervously waiting for his bandage to be removed. A middle-aged nurse stood at the side of the bed, a metal kidney bowl in her hand. It contained gauze and scissors and some iodine in a small brown bottle. She kept offering muttered platitudes about how it would all be fine. Joe noticed that the nurse had a scar on her cheek; just a small one beneath the eye, like a crack in marble. Idly, he wondered what her story was. Then his thoughts turned back to his own problems. Why had he tried to force Iris? He felt so mad with himself. He knew he was a good-looking guy with an easy charm; and he knew he didn’t have to behave like that. He didn’t have to force women to do things against their will. More importantly, he didn’t want to behave like that. Joe Batch was better than that.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Chuck’s knuckles whitening as he gripped the sheets. The nurse had cut away the bandage from around his head and she was carefully removing the gauze. More platitudes were emanating from her lips, a mantra to calm herself as much as her patient. Joe watched as the old dressing was placed in the kidney bowl. Nothing prepared him for the image that was in front of him. Chuck Wellings’ right eye was just a socket of redness and congealed blood. And beneath that, his cheek was a mess of scarring. His good eye darted around, with a hint of panic. Joe had been unable to hide the shock on his face and Chuck had picked up on that.
“What’s it like?” he stammered, keen for reassurance. “Is it all right?”
“You’ll be fine,” Joe said, managing a smile.
The nurse continued her job and went to place a clean gauze over the wound. But Chuck blocked her hand.
“No, I want to see.”
“Are you sure?” the nurse asked. Chuck nodded and the nurse went off before returning with a shaving mirror. She angled it so that Chuck could see his face. Slowly he turned his head to see his wounded eye. Joe placed a supportive hand on his friend’s arm. Chuck struggled to stop his tears as he looked at the horror in front of him. When the nurse asked if he was all right, Chuck nodded, but Joe could see that he was far from all right. He stayed by his bedside, waiting for him to talk about how he was feeling. After a few minutes’ silence, Chuck eventually spoke.
“I thought it might be -” he searched for the words, “- there. You know, still there and that I might look normal.”
“It’s early days. I’m sure they’ll fit you up with something.”
“What? A glass eye?” Chuck slumped back in his bed, dabbing away a tear from his cheek. “Ain’t no one going to give me a second look now, is there?”
“Hey, you don’t know that.”
“I do know that. It was hard enough before,” Chuck snapped. His friend was in no mood to be appeased, angry at the injustice of his own circumstances. Dr Channing breezed into the ward. He glanced at the clipboard at the end of Chuck’s bed and asked how he was feeling. Joe assumed that the nurse had told him about Chuck’s reaction to seeing his injury. But Channing’s officious manner made it readily apparent that he wasn’t expecting Chuck to cry on him. Such behaviour wouldn’t be welcomed. Chuck didn’t repeat what he’d said moments earlier and just nodded that he was fine. Channing seemed willing to accept this comment at face value, relieved to be able to leave the room. Ten minutes later, Joe left the ward. He had considered dropping by the farm to apologise to Iris, but he wasn’t ready to face her. Maybe tomorrow when the shame had had time to dissipate. He felt a prick of anger at himself. What had he been thinking? By the time he got to the main entrance of Hoxley Manor, he found himself nearly in tears. What was happening to him? Was this anguish brought on by his friend’s injury? From what he’d tried to do to Iris? Or was one thing related to the other? Things were falling apart. Joe pushed his forehead against the brickwork of the doorway, letting the coolness soothe his temper. After a few minutes, he took a deep breath and set off back to the barracks, feeling he was in control again.
As the day turned to evening, no one had noticed that Chuck Wellings had sat in his bed, staring ahead blankly for hours on end. Nurses would come to check on him and he’d mumble that he was fine. When Joyce came to see if he wanted to get up for his evening meal in the Great Hall, Chuck refused. He wasn’t hungry and wanted to stay in his bed.
&n
bsp; “Well, at least let me get you a cup of tea.” Joyce smiled.
When she returned with a green utility cup of lukewarm tea, she was surprised to see that the bed was empty; a heavy indent in the mattress where Chuck had been. Maybe he’d gone to have some dinner after all. Joyce left the tea and went about her business, soon forgetting about him.
Chuck Wellings was traipsing down the corridors. He spotted something that caught his eye in one of the wards. Checking no one was around, he walked towards the empty bed. On the bedside cabinet was a glass of water and a bottle of pills. Chuck picked up the pills and squinted at the label. They weren’t what he was looking for. He put them down and looked around the empty room. By the other bed was another bottle of pills. This was what Chuck was looking for. He popped the small brown bottle of painkillers in his dressing-gown pocket and returned to his bed. There was a cup of tea next to it, steadily growing colder, the milk congealing a little around the rim as it cooled. He took a mouthful of tablets and a swig of tea. One of the other patients was looking in his direction and if the man had had the ability to speak, he might have asked what Chuck was doing or raised the alarm. Chuck took another few pills from the bottle, the bitter chalky taste in the cold tea filling his mouth as he tried to swallow them. And then he got back into bed. As he pulled the sheets up around him, Chuck thought about the times he’d run after his father’s tractor on the family farm, with his beloved dog chasing behind them. He thought about the pals back home, the invincible gang. As the warm embrace of darkness enveloped him, the last thing he thought about was how the fields of corn looked as the sun was setting. Like yellow hands reaching up to heaven.
Iris had never seen the farmhouse table with a tablecloth on it. But then she also hadn’t seen it with proper place settings either. Each place had a fine-china plate, white with a turquoise border, and a napkin folded on top, and the plate itself was flanked by two forks and two knives. In the centre of the table was a large, oblong plate with the same turquoise border. That was the serving plate for the fish that was currently cooking in the stove top. Martin had caught the trout himself the previous day and it had been in the larder room in a bucket of cold water ever since. Esther’s face was red from the heat of the cooking. She wiped her hands on her apron and chivvied the girls to continue preparations. Dolores O’Malley was peeling potatoes, Shelley Conrad was cutting a cabbage on the chopping board while trying not to cut her fingers.
“Heh heh, how’s that fish?” Finch wandered in, fiddling with a cravat. A cravat? Iris did a double-take. Finch’s hair was slicked down with far too much Brylcreem and he was wearing a wing-collar shirt. He reminded her of Toad of Toad Hall from one of Martin’s picture books.
“Hey! Who let Oscar Wilde in here?” Shelley laughed. Finch looked offended and mumbled that he was merely making an effort. Iris was grateful that she hadn’t mentioned Toad.
“And I want you all to make an effort too. Make her feel really welcome!” he shouted. Iris took the tops off two bottles of homemade wine. Finch had been experimenting for the last six months, collecting dandelion heads and sloes to make wine. Iris hadn’t tried any of it as Finch was saving it for a special occasion. And tonight was just such an occasion. Shelley put out some wine glasses. They weren’t identical, unlike the rest of the place settings. Iris looked towards her own place setting and the glass in front of it. With some dandelion wine inside her, she hoped she would get straight to sleep tonight. She had stopped taking the pills that Channing had given her, feeling they weren’t helping. As Iris and Shelley finished the preparations, Shelley asked about Joe Batch. Had he been back? Had Iris seen him?
“No, but I’m not sure I want to,” she said. She didn’t know how she would feel if she saw him again. Besides, maybe he’d be too embarrassed by his previous behaviour to show his face.
At eight o’clock the guest of honour arrived. Evelyn Gray was wearing a fur stole and a charcoal-coloured button-down dress. The Land Girls had lined up on one side of the kitchen, at Finch’s request, as if they were about to meet the King. Evelyn was amused by this. She greeted each of the girls in turn, asking what they did, to much hilarity. Finch was perplexed by the laughter, not understanding why his idea of a formal greeting had failed. But he laughed along. All the time people were laughing, they were having a good time. And that made him happy and relaxed. He pulled out a chair for Evelyn and everyone sat around the table.
“There we are,” Finch said nervously.
“Relax, Fred. I’m going to have a lovely time.” Evelyn smiled.
Iris looked at Evelyn’s face and her stylish blonde hair, thinking that she seemed familiar. She’d seen her from a distance in the town, while on the egg run, but now she was up close, Iris was sure that they’d met before. But where?
Esther brought the trout to the table and placed it in the centre. Dolores, Shelley and Iris sat one side of the table, with Finch and Evelyn at either end. Martin and John were having dinner at Shallow Brook Farm, but they said they might pop over for a late drink. As the sun started to set, everyone tucked into their food.
At first, Esther was a little wary of Evelyn. Iris had noticed that Esther had appraised Evelyn’s outfit with an up-and-down look of barely disguised contempt. Iris supposed it was true that Evelyn looked flighty. But if you were feeling less judgemental, you could say her look was more worldly, cosmopolitan. Perhaps Esther felt threatened by her experience and was jealous of the opportunities that Evelyn had taken. The bottom line was that everyone around that table wanted to know more about Evelyn Gray.
“Where do you live?” Dolores asked.
“Other side of Stableforth. Near Brinford,” Evelyn replied. She explained that she had a car.
“A car?” Shelley gasped.
Evelyn shrugged as if it was nothing. What else was she supposed to do? Iris went to the window to look out into the yard, where Evelyn’s car was parked. It was a 1929 dark-green Riley Nine, a sporty model with four doors. After seeing this, Iris thought that Evelyn was a stylish, sophisticated woman and she hung on her every word, much to Dolores’s amusement.
“I get a petrol ration because I’m a courier,” Evelyn explained.
“Are you?” Finch looked surprised and Iris saw Esther shaking her head in disbelief that Finch didn’t know what she did for a job.
“I told you that, the first time we went to the pub.”
“I might have had a bit too much, you know.”
Dolores poured some more dandelion wine. Iris eagerly put out her glass for a refill and Dolores obliged. Iris didn’t really like the taste of the syrupy wine, but it was making her feel pleasantly woozy. It was strong and reminded her of whisky. She was aware of Evelyn watching her, an impassive expression playing on her face. Was she disapproving of Iris taking more wine? Didn’t she like young girls drinking? Iris was starting not to care, the welcome side effect of drinking strong, homemade alcohol. But something was troubling her. Where had she seen this woman before?
After the meal, everyone adjourned to the parlour. This was the room at the back of the farmhouse where seats were adorned with antimacassars, a radio stood in pride of place and the carpet wasn’t worn. The room wasn’t used very often, so the girls trotted happily through with their drinks, savouring the opportunity. As they listened to Evelyn tell a story about her courier work - she had some amusing story about a mystery parcel that turned out to be a live rabbit - Iris sidled back to the empty kitchen. One of the bottles still held some dandelion wine, so she checked that the coast was clear and poured some into her glass. She gulped it down, the orange liquid burning her throat. She drank some more until the level in her glass was the same as when she had come out. Iris steadied herself on the back of one of the chairs. The skeleton of the trout in the centre of the table peered at her with a coal-black eye. Was it judging her? It reminded her of the eyes of the scarecrow that had been wearing Vernon’s clothes. Iris shuddered. She poured a little more into her glass to calm her nerves. Her mind
started to wander back to Northampton. She was thinking about her mum and how delighted she would be, one day, to read a letter that Iris had actually written, when she felt someone’s presence in the kitchen. She spun round. Evelyn Gray was standing there. She was wearing the same strangely unreadable expression that she had earlier. She flicked open a silver cigarette case and proffered it to Iris.
“Cigarette?”
“No, thanks, I don’t smoke.”
“You should. Goes well with a drink.” Evelyn lit a match and sparked her cigarette to life. “And it looks as though you like a drink.”
Iris felt the other woman’s eyes scanning for a reaction, so she stared resolutely at the floor. She looked up as she heard the familiar glug-glug-glug of more wine being poured. To her surprise, Evelyn was filling her glass.
“You need something. We all need something, whether it’s drink, sex, gambling. Something to get us through the war. And you need to do whatever works for you.” Evelyn smiled, the corners of her eyes wrinkling up. This was unexpected. Iris feared being judged for her drinking. Being encouraged was a strange new experience. Warily, Iris took the glass and put it to her lips. The rim was sticky from the liquid and it fixed itself momentarily to her lip. She felt the warm wine burning in her throat. This was a liberating experience, getting tipsy in someone else’s presence, someone who seemed to approve. Or, at least, not to disapprove.
“Fred says you’re over at Shallow Brook now?” Evelyn said.
Iris nodded. “Just for a week or so.” She realised that she felt quite drunk. Her voice sounded far away and muffled. But there was no stopping her now. She put the glass to her lips and took a couple of sips. This was nice. In a weird way.
“Good to have a change of scene?”
“Not really.”
“Is the work similar?” Evelyn exhaled on her cigarette.
“More clearing of weeds and things.” Iris laughed, immediately feeling she had laughed too loudly. Evelyn took this in, contemplating it as if Iris had said something profound. This unnerved Iris a little, so she stopped laughing. She hadn’t said anything deep or particularly intelligent. Why was Evelyn pondering it? Iris didn’t know. It was as if Evelyn was thinking about something else entirely. Iris put the glass back to her lips. To her surprise, Evelyn was waiting with the bottle. She indicated for Iris to hold out her glass for another refill.