by Roland Moore
“No, I shouldn’t,” Iris said, aware that she was already slurring her words.
But Evelyn smiled, a big, warm, encouraging smile. “Go on! I won’t say.”
Iris watched as the amber wine filled her glass. She put it towards her mouth, but she was spilling some of it now, her actions jerky and haphazard. How had she got so drunk so quickly? Yes, the wine was strong, but she had been all right until a few minutes ago. Now, it felt as though someone else was steering her body and she wasn’t doing a great job. What was happening? She knew that sometimes the drink would affect her more than others. Sometimes it depended on how much or how little she had eaten, or how tired she was. But she knew she had more tolerance to alcohol than this.
Iris struggled to focus. She staggered into a seat around the table, gripping the edge of the wood in case she might somehow fly away like an untethered balloon. Suddenly she felt ill and very inebriated. Through her hazy vision, Iris spotted something. Evelyn was putting a small bottle back in her bag. The bottle didn’t have much left in it, but it contained a clear liquid.
“What’s that?” Iris heard her voice sounding far away.
“Nothing.”
“What have you done?” Iris slurred. “Have you done something to -”
“Helping you have a really good night, that’s all.” Evelyn smiled.
Something was wrong, but Iris didn’t know what it was. But she knew she had to get help. Had Evelyn put something in her drink? Iris had heard about unscrupulous GIs doing this to girls they fancied. Iris didn’t like feeling like this. She stood up from the table and staggered. Evelyn was quickly at her side, helping to hold her up.
“It’s all right. I’m here.”
Iris tried to bat her away. Everything Evelyn was doing seemed friendly, but Iris had a dreadful feeling that it was the total opposite of friendship.
“I’m sorry,” Evelyn said, getting close enough that Iris could smell her perfume. “I really was just trying to help.”
Iris fell forwards, crashing onto the table and sending the serving spoon from the trout flying into the air. The sound of the fall and the commotion meant that the kitchen quickly filled as Finch, Esther, Dolores and Shelley all came running to see what the problem was. Evelyn was holding Iris, helping her back to a sitting position.
“I caught her drinking. She’s just had a bit much,” Evelyn offered.
Esther shooed her out of the way so she could get to her young charge. Iris was unconscious, but roused when Esther gently slapped her cheek. “Let’s get you to bed, young lady,” Esther said with a frown. Shelley and Dolores helped get the slurring Iris to her feet and they carried her towards the back of the farm and the bedrooms. Finch stayed with Evelyn.
“She’s been having problems,” Finch said, by way of explanation.
“Poor thing,” Evelyn replied.
Iris was dimly aware of being placed on her bed, with the looming faces of her friends swimming around her. They were concerned and anxious as they tried to get Iris into her pyjamas. But lifting a floppy dead weight didn’t make changing clothes easy, so Dolores and Shelley gave up, leaving Iris on top of the sheets in her clothes. Iris felt the room spinning round. She struggled to remember what had happened in the kitchen. A small bottle being placed in a bag. The smiling older woman, who had encouraged her.
“She’s just had a bit much.”
Other thoughts, good and bad, jostled for attention as her head spun.
A young girl running over cobbles, her knee bloodied from having stumbled -
Vernon forcing Iris down onto the desk, his hand on her throat -
Martin walking back from the village with her -
A nagging, unformed thought about Evelyn Gray. Who was she? Where had they met before?
But before Iris could think any more, she felt as if she was going to be sick. She propped herself up in bed, but to her relief, nothing happened. She struggled to get under the covers, still in her clothes. The room was spinning and her cheeks felt impossibly hot. Thankfully she soon fell asleep and for once, by way of some small consolation, she didn’t dream of Vernon.
Chapter 6
As dawn broke the next day, heavy boots ran in regimented formation along the muddy banks of Panmere Lake. The US military were conducting a night-time mission to move all the munitions from the temporary store by the lake to somewhere more secure. They had come without fanfare or announcement, eager to do the dangerous job as quickly and as quietly as possible. Even the local busybody, Mrs Gulliver, hadn’t noticed any of the covert troop movements that had been happening during the previous day, as the army built up its manpower near the lake for the manoeuvre. Private First Class Joe Batch stood with twenty-five other men from his unit, awaiting more instructions. They had already worked for nearly two hours to load a truck with crates of bullets, and now there was a short break in proceedings while a new, empty truck was brought into position. Joe watched as the loaded truck made its slow and steady way from the banks of the lake to the country road that led to Helmstead. Some of the men were standing around, smoking cigarettes and chatting. Their sergeant had given them time to be at ease and grab a rest break while the trucks changed over. Idly he thought of Iris Dawson and their trip to the flicks. She was a nice girl. And he had the hots for her. But he knew he couldn’t behave like he had outside the village hall. That felt like the actions of a ruffian, not him at all. Again, Joe wondered what had happened to him. He knew he wanted to make things up to Iris. If she wanted to see him again.
A sound caught his attention. Joe’s first thought was that the truck engine sounded wrong, slightly different. Whining and higher-pitched than usual, as if the bearings in the engine had started to seize. But moments later, he realised it wasn’t the truck making the noise, but a sound coming from further away.
Up in the sky. The realisation hit him as time seemed to slow down.
“Enemy planes!” he shouted, spotting three Messerschmitt 109 fighter planes coursing over the trees. They were banking lower over the pines, turning. They’d spotted the soldiers. Or they knew they’d be here. Either way, the planes were coming in for a surprise attack. Cigarettes were instantly discarded as soldiers scrambled for their weapons. Joe grabbed a machine gun and ran towards a raised bank by the lake, where four or five of his comrades had already taken up defensive positions. He could feel the wetness from the mud seeping through his shirt as he threw himself down. He watched as the planes banked around yet again. “They’re scoping us!” the sergeant barked. “Let them have it when they’ve turned away from us!”
Joe squinted along the sights of his gun, aware that everyone was doing the same. He had one of the enemy planes in his sights and watched as it moved away, in formation with the others.
“Wait for it,” ordered the sergeant, before shouting, “Fire!”
A barrage of gunfire broke the early morning silence, quelling the birdsong around the lake. Bullets whizzed through the air and the plane that Joe had been aiming at exploded into flames, hit by multiple guns at the same time. With black smoke pluming from the fuselage, the fighter careered out of control and dipped down below the trees in the distance. Joe didn’t have time to listen for the explosion or celebrate his victory, as the remaining two fighters had now turned and were strafing the ground with machine-gun fire of their own. The mud along the banks was ripped up in a hellish inferno of fire, dirt and noise. Joe heard screams and thuds as two of his friends were shot, flying backwards with the impact onto the ground. The planes banked around again, but this time the soldiers weren’t ready to take advantage. The sergeant’s face was etched with worry. Joe didn’t like the look of that. He wanted his commanding officers to be bastions of calm and capability. But the sergeant had already realised that the troops’ current position offered very little in the form of protective cover. Joe didn’t wait for any orders and just fired his gun, desperate to catch the planes while they were facing away. But this time, jittery with nerves and fear, he m
anaged to shoot wide of his target.
The planes turned. Joe was dimly aware of one of his colleagues trying to make a run for it, perhaps for deeper cover, perhaps to get away. He would never know. The man was cut down, his body dancing like a grotesque puppet as the Messerschmitt’s bullets tore up the ground again. Joe glanced to his sergeant for orders. The sergeant was looking at the surroundings, searching for somewhere where they could reach to be safe. Some other troops were firing back at the planes on their turn, but the resistance was diminishing as the casualties escalated.
Joe noticed that the planes were taking a wider angle on their turn this time. What were they doing? For a moment, he hoped that they had finished their attack, perhaps believing that most of the GIs were dead. But then, he realised the dreadful truth. They were arcing round so they could come back to attack a different target. The storage hut that contained the remaining boxes of munitions.
The sergeant realised the same thing. He ordered his men to stand up and indicated for them to make a beeline for the storage hut. Joe hesitated. What good would that do? It would only succeed in getting them all blown up. He watched as three of his friends followed the sergeant.
“We need to fire from that position to stop it hitting the hut!” the sergeant said.
Joe stayed by the bank, knowing that he was disobeying orders. He fooled himself into thinking he could provide some covering fire from here. Yes, that’s what he could do. It seemed senseless to stand and fruitlessly defend a munitions dump that was about to be blown up.
“Joe! Get your ass -” The sergeant turned and shouted. But he never finished the sentence as machine-gun fire from the planes cut into him. The other men raised their weapons, but it was too late. The plane unloaded its cannons into the storage hut, causing a gigantic fireball to blow the roof and the walls off. Joe was thrown backwards several feet and felt his shoulder smash into a tree stump. Dazed and confused, he stared numbly at the sky, unable to move. It was as if it was raining, as he felt warm liquid splattering his face and clothes. He didn’t have the energy to move, even when he realised it was blood from his fellow soldiers, the ones who had been standing near to the storage hut.
Joe squinted upwards, on his back. He watched the two Messerschmitts circle away through the thick plume of smoke coming from the ground. He didn’t know where his gun was any more. He heard other, smaller, explosions, as more boxes of munitions were caught in the blaze. Fireworks, he thought numbly, and he remembered a Thanksgiving celebration in his parents’ garden when he was 11. Ice cream and fireworks. And his neighbour, Mr Gressing, dressed up as a clown. A clown that scared him. Finally, as the explosions stopped and a long silence followed, Joe was aware of the tentative sound of birdsong resuming in the woods. It was as though nothing had ever happened.
Iris sat at the kitchen table feeling as if she’d died. Her head was pounding and she felt sick, a feeling that wasn’t helped by the smell of the bacon that Esther was currently frying. If an aroma could taunt you, then the bacon was doing a great job. It was as if Esther was doing it on purpose because she was annoyed with her. Frank was putting on his boots. Finch was contemplating two slices of bread and butter in front of him that were ready for the arrival of the bacon.
“Don’t think you’ll be getting off work today, young lady.” Esther pushed the bacon around the pan. “It’s your own fault you showed yourself up.”
“I told you,” Iris protested. “She put something in my drink.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Finch blustered. There was annoyance in his voice and because he didn’t often show anger, it scared Iris a little. “Why would she do that?”
“Casting aspersions,” Esther commented.
Iris looked to Frank for help and support. But his hands were tied. “I wasn’t there, sorry.”
“Where were you, anyway?” Esther asked, serving up the bacon. She put one rasher on Finch’s plate and two on Frank’s, to Finch’s annoyance.
“I was trying to catch some rabbits over the Gorley woods. And I didn’t have much luck.” Frank looked consolingly at Iris. “Sounds like your evening was a similar affair.”
“She’s only got herself to blame,” Esther said, returning the pan to the hob and peeling off some more rashers from some greaseproof wrapping for cooking. “Imagine blaming your guest for making you drunk! I mean, I’m not Evelyn Gray’s biggest fan, but I don’t see why she’d do that.”
“She said she was trying to give me a good night,” Iris said, trying to piece it together herself.
“Why would she be bothered about that?” Esther shook her head, not having any of it.
Finch picked up on something that Esther had said and suddenly interjected, his jaws chewing a chunk of sandwich like a rotivator churning soil, “Here, what do you mean, you’re not her biggest fan?”
“I mean, I don’t particularly like her,” Esther stammered.
“But I want you to like her!”
“What does it matter if I like her?”
“Why don’t you like her?”
“I just don’t. She probably feels the same about me.”
Amid this exchange, Frank smiled at Iris and indicated that it might be prudent for them to make a hasty exit. Iris got shakily to her feet, eschewing the bacon sandwich in front of her. She made for the door, but both of them stopped in their tracks as they heard Finch say, “Because when I ask her to marry me, I want us to all get on!”
Iris’s eyes widened in shock. Frank bustled her out of the door. The last thing Iris heard from inside was Esther’s voice.
“Marry? What are you talking about, you daft fool?”
Frank walked with Iris to Shallow Brook Farm. The early morning air was fresh and bracing, but rather than clear Iris’s head, it just made it thump harder. Frank was chuckling about Finch and Evelyn, saying he couldn’t believe it. Finch had only known the woman a couple of weeks. Talk about fools rushing in! But Iris wasn’t really listening. She was still working out what had happened last night. Was she misremembering things? Maybe she had just had too much to drink. But she remembered feeling uneasy around Evelyn, feeling perhaps that she’d met her somewhere before. She couldn’t work it out as the details were frustratingly out of reach in the cold light of day. Maybe Evelyn had just wanted to give her a good evening, as she’d said. But why had she made that comment afterwards? Why had she said, “I caught her drinking. She’s just had a bit much”? Had she felt guilty for having given Iris the alcohol? Maybe she wanted to distance herself from any blame. It all seemed very odd, though.
Frank was still talking about the marriage proposal as they branched off at the yard of Shallow Brook Farm. Iris made her way to the farmhouse. The front door suddenly opened and Joyce, with a hunk of bread between her teeth, bolted from the house.
“I overslept!” she shouted as she raced off, as Iris approached.
That morning, Iris worked in the yard. Martin and John had found a note on the mat asking them to secure the broken fence in the North Field. Apparently some sheep were getting into the field from a neighbouring farm. So the men had gone off to fix it. Iris was grateful that they weren’t around. She didn’t really want to talk to anyone when she felt so rough. The chill of the early morning hadn’t lifted and now Iris could add feeling shivery and cold to having a headache. As she worked, she thought about the revelation in the kitchen. Finch was going to ask Evelyn to marry him! It was a major piece of gossip and she knew that the other girls would have a field day.
She wondered whether Evelyn Gray was a gold digger. If she was, it looked as if Finch was playing right into her hands. Should Iris say something? She decided that Finch probably wouldn’t be in the mood to listen. Besides, after her accusations this morning, Finch already thought Iris had an axe to grind.
Every jolt of the tools was making Iris’s head pound, as if there was a brass band in there. She decided to go to the kitchen to warm up with a cup of tea. She was sure that John and Martin wouldn’t mind.
>
Iris walked into the house. It was strange being there alone, with everyone gone. Maybe this would be a good chance for her to conquer her fears. Iris tapped the faulty barometer in the hallway and took in the details of the house. The worn carpet near the front door. The grimy light bedecked with a cobweb. The ancient wooden carving of Jesus on the wall. Here was her chance to control the fear that always overcame her. On the hat stand was a flat cap. One of Vernon’s hats. Iris took it in her hands, feeling the worn fabric, noticing the oil from his hair on the label inside. And there, tucked in the seam, was one of Vernon’s hairs. Iris stared at it, took a deep breath. She told herself it was all right. Vernon was gone. She put it back on the hat stand and went to the stove to make a cup of tea.
The North Field was the largest field at Shallow Brook Farm. It was also the furthest field from the farmhouse. Martin and John walked along the perimeter of the fence, noting some small breaks in the wire. Although he wasn’t an experienced farmer, John was baffled. There didn’t seem to be any holes or gaps big enough to allow a sheep through.
“And where are the sheep that got in?” Martin asked.
John thought about what the note had said and sighed. “It just said sheep are getting in from the lane.”
“But where from? There’s no sheep around.”
John shook his head. He didn’t have any answers. “Maybe they got it wrong and it was someone else’s field.”
“Who wrote the note?”
“I don’t know.”
“Great! So we can’t even tell them they got it wrong. What a flaming waste of time.”
John decided that they should check the rest of the perimeter. This earned him a groan from Martin, who wasn’t happy about walking all the way around. John thought they’d better be certain. But to Martin it seemed as if they had been led on a fool’s errand. As they walked, John struck up a conversation, an amused grin on his face. “I hear you went to the pictures.”