by Roland Moore
“Well, I’ve put him straight about a few things.” Iris said, attempting to close down the conversation.
“You have?”
Iris felt touched that he was so concerned, but she wished it was for something else. The thought of being judged for drinking sent a chill of embarrassment through her bones.
“I can stop drinking.” Iris looked Martin in the eyes. He smiled back, but something about his expression already told her it was too late.
A pair of heavy boots scuffed their way across the overgrown grass as Frederick Finch shambled across the graveyard. Some crows cawed in the distance as Finch reached a small headstone. The stone had turned green with a thin layer of moss. Finch had tried scrubbing it some fifteen years ago, but the incumbent vicar at the time had told him it was a fault in the stone, a porosity that meant moss would grow and change its colour even after you scrubbed the moss away. And the moss would always return, a life after life. Finch could still read the inscription: Agnes Finch, Beloved Wife of Frederick, Mother of William, 1892-1920. She had died while giving birth to their only son, Billy. So as he grew up, each birthday was a celebration tinged with the sadness of marking a loss. Finch had loved her and he would always raise a glass of whisky to Agnes, finding a quiet corner to shed a silent tear. And then he would go back to play with his son, kicking a ball or playing chase as if nothing was wrong. Over the years, it had got easier, Finch learning that time really does heal, the raw anguish of loss fading to a resigned but controllable sadness. Eventually. But this steady lessening of grief meant that Finch felt guilty sometimes. Shouldn’t he feel worse about Agnes being gone? There were days, weeks when he wouldn’t think about her. He guessed that the passage of over twenty years had enabled him to come to terms with his loss.
And now he was about to change that status quo by asking Evelyn Gray to become his new wife.
Finch looked at Agnes’s name on the headstone. What would she think? Would she feel betrayed or satisfied in some small way that he was moving on and finding happiness again? She might think he had grieved enough perhaps, having allowed a respectable passage of time to pass before embarking on another relationship. Finch felt he was ready. To him, it was a sign that he had fallen so heavily for Evelyn, when usually he didn’t really register women around him. Perhaps now it was time to feel the warmth of a woman next to him again. Finch spoke to Agnes, staring down at the grave. He told her about Evelyn and about his desire to marry her. He asked Agnes if he was being a stupid old fool. He wished she could answer. The truth was that Finch hadn’t really been interested in finding someone to love. He had steady companionship with Esther Reeves at the farm, and most new arrivals would assume that they were married - much to Esther’s chagrin. Finch had become used to his bachelor ways, finding enjoyment in small money-making ventures or games of cards with his friends. The farm was never quiet these days, with its walls full of Land Girls and their problems, so that meant he rarely had to feel the loneliness of a quiet room. Evelyn was the first woman who had been interested in him romantically. And yes, he knew what the naysayers thought.
What if she’s only after your money?
What if she wants to get her hands on the farm?
But Finch didn’t think she needed his money. She had her own cottage on the edge of Brinford. He hadn’t seen it yet, but he hoped that he would soon. As well as owning a car, she seemed to have her own means of support thanks to her job as a wartime courier. So Finch’s concerns weren’t the whispered suspicions of the women at the farm, rather his own insecurity about rushing into something. He’d barely known Evelyn for three weeks, and here he was standing by his wife’s grave, a small engagement ring burning a hole in his pocket and a plan forming in his head.
“Hello, Fred?”
Finch turned to see the boyish face of the Reverend Henry Jameson, who had noticed him and stopped on his way back to the vicarage. “I thought it was you.”
“I’d just come to see the wife, you know.” Finch nodded towards the grave. From the serious look on Finch’s face, Henry guessed that he was wrestling with some problem. He cocked a concerned eyebrow and went to join Finch at the grave. “Wanted to know if I was doing the right thing and not just being a stupid old fool. See, I’ve met someone.”
“Connie mentioned something. I’m sure you aren’t being foolish,” Henry said. He hesitated in case Finch wanted to say any more, but the farmer just stared intently at the green headstone. “And what have you decided?”
“I think that life has to move on, doesn’t it?”
Henry smiled at Finch, the nature of his dilemma becoming clearer in the reverend’s mind. “You’ll never forget Agnes, whatever you do. And she’ll be waiting in heaven for you with understanding and love.”
Finch nodded, comforted by the younger man’s words. “Thanks, Reverend.”
Henry patted Finch on the shoulder and walked slowly off towards the vicarage and his own wife. Finch smiled warmly at the grave and turned to walk away, his hand holding the ring in his pocket. His mind was made up. Foolish or not, he would ask Evelyn to marry him. As he reached the main road outside the graveyard, Finch noticed the battered figure of Frank Tucker waiting for him. The thin man had his cap in his hands, which somehow accentuated the dark bruising on his cheek. One eye was bruised shut, a macabre, perpetual purple and red wink.
“Fred?” Frank said.
“Blimey, what happened to you?”
“A Yank. But it doesn’t matter. The boy needed to get it out of his system,” Frank stated.
“Hope you’re not looking for time off!” Finch half-joked.
“No,” Frank said. “I was looking to have a word about Iris. I just heard that you want to send her away.”
“That’s right, and save your breath. She needs a new start away from Shallow Brook. Daft idea to be so close to that place after what happened to her there.” Finch focused on Frank’s good eye to see if the message was getting home. It seemed it was. Frank nodded with a resigned air. He started to walk away. Finch followed.
“You know, Fred. What if you let her stay?”
“No, out of the question. Not after what she did.”
“I’ll be responsible for her. Keep her in line.”
“She made up all sorts of stories. You didn’t see her. She was mad at Evelyn for catching her out about her drinking.”
“I believe her,” Frank stated, simply, waiting to gauge Finch’s reaction. The farmer glowered angrily, small beads of sweat forming on his brow. “No, hear me out. Iris showed me a map.”
“What map? What are you talking about?”
“It was the only thing she said Evelyn didn’t get from Shallow Brook.” Frank smiled, trying to make Finch relax and see that he was overreacting. “It’s evidence that something happened, isn’t it?”
“It’s evidence that Iris drew a map!” Finch snapped angrily. He started to storm off up the high street, but Frank managed to stop him in his tracks.
“Iris can’t write, though, Fred.”
Finch stopped as he took this in, wondering if it was important or whether it was irrelevant. What did the map prove either way? If it existed, so what? There was nothing linking it to Evelyn or to Shallow Brook Farm, was there? No proof that it meant that Evelyn was in the farm as Iris claimed. After a couple of moments, Finch shook his head in frustration. He’d had enough. Frank could side with Iris if he liked, but Finch was going to send Iris away. It was the best thing for everyone. He stomped away, leaving a defeated Frank staring after him.
The clatter of cutlery on metal plates and the loud, excitable conversation made the mess hall a noisy place. The sound would amplify thanks to the cavernous acoustics of the metal hall. Joe finished his lunch. It still riled him thinking about what Iris had said by the stream. He’d thought she was going to rekindle their relationship, but instead she had the front to tell him what he should do about Frank Tucker. She wasn’t going to change his mind. Besides, it was his patriotic duty.
He lent back from the table, watching his fellow soldiers talking and eating. He felt removed, distant from them. How could they be smiling and laughing when he’d lost so many friends? Sure, they felt the loss too, but the men who died weren’t friends they’d grown up with. To them, it was a case of thanking God that it wasn’t them this time, and moving on, nothing more. As they laughed, Joe guessed that they were letting off steam, showing relief that they had survived this time.
How should he deal with Frank?
Joe knew that he needed a weapon. That way he could deal with Frank Tucker quickly and efficiently. But getting a gun would be hard since he’d been taken off active duty. Now he couldn’t just obtain a gun from the armoury without authorisation. Joe had tried to wing it with some good ol’ boy charm, but for once charm wouldn’t cut it.
“Why don’t you get lost and stop wasting my time?” The armoury officer scowled at him.
“Sure, I can do that,” Joe said, conceding defeat. The last thing he wanted was to escalate the situation so that he was put on a charge, with questions being asked. As it stood, the armoury officer probably assumed he was a green private who didn’t know the rules. Joe was happy to get lost, for now. But he still needed a gun. And perhaps it would be better if it wasn’t one from the armoury, so it couldn’t be traced so easily.
In the mess hall, he glanced to his right, towards the entrance and saw a sombre-faced Captain Harry Cosallo enter the room, scanning the tables. Was he looking for someone? He had a face that meant that bad news was on the way for someone. In the captain’s hand was a folded piece of paper. Probably a telegram, Joe thought. Definitely bad news. So it surprised him when the Captain locked eyes with him and smiled.
“Private Joe Batch? Come with me,” Cosallo didn’t wait for any reaction, as he turned on his heels and left the room as abruptly as he had come. Joe was aware of the intrigued faces of his fellow soldiers as he got up and followed, but soon the men busied themselves with the rest of their lunch, his fate forgotten.
When Joe got outside, he found Cosallo waiting for him.
“Sir?” Joe asked, fearing more bad news. Who had died now?
But Cosallo cracked a warm smile, his face relaxed. This made Joe relax too.
“I know you’re off active duty, but I need you to run an errand,” Cosallo said. “We use a variety of couriers to ferry stuff around between bases, but the one we scheduled for today, well, she didn’t show up. I need you to drive a box of steak to Vasham Fields.”
“Steak?”
“Steak. Meat. You know?”
“Sir,” Joe replied, acknowledging the order. He knew that the base at Vasham Fields was nearly thirty miles away. He would be gone most of the day, driving a truck across the countryside.
“And as you’re going, I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone.”
“Sir?”
“I wouldn’t trust it to a courier, but you can take two crates of munitions and weapons in the same transit.”
“Yes, sir.” Joe saluted. Suddenly, he saw a way of perhaps getting a gun. “May I ask if I could be armed for this mission, sir?” Joe was aware that carrying armaments was a high-risk activity. There were many people who would like to get their hands on such weapons.
“Yes, of course.” Cosallo nodded. “I’ll authorise a pistol and twenty rounds of ammunition. But no one knows about this mission other than the two of us and the receiving officer at Vasham, so I don’t expect any trouble.”
Cosallo handed the folded piece of paper to Joe. On it were the specific details of the cargo and the journey, along with a requisition order for an army truck with petrol allowance for seventy miles. Joe Batch watched his superior officer walk off. He lent against the corrugated metal wall of the mess hall and smiled. Cosallo was so smart, wasn’t he? It may have looked like a happy coincidence but that was because Cosallo knew what he was doing. This was further proof that Cosallo was sanctioning a revenge mission. Why else would he have picked Joe? Here he was giving Joe access to a hand gun. He might not have said so, but if you read between the lines, Cosallo was ordering Joe to get a confession from Frank Tucker. Joe knew that the captain couldn’t say it, this was a strictly off-the-radar mission. Now, finally, a plan was forming in Joe’s head. He set off to get the truck and the crates for the delivery.
Iris was busying herself with clearing the yard at Shallow Brook Farm when she heard the trundling wheels of the egg cart coming down over the concrete. Shelley Conrad had gone back to Helmstead for her to retrieve the cart. Iris nodded her thanks.
“One tray had been stolen, but that’s all,” Shelley puffed as she applied the brake to the cart. “Not bad.”
“Thanks so much,” Iris said. “I forgot all about it after I ran off.”
“At least Esther might not find out about it now.”
“Yes. That would only have made it all worse.” Iris smiled, “Mind you, Esther’s not talking to me, and the mood in the kitchen this morning was awful. It was as if someone had died. So I don’t think it could be worse.”
“It’ll pass,” Shelley said. “They’ll soon have something else to worry about.”
“Have they said anything to you? About me?” Iris was worried.
“Not really. I heard Dolores saying that you’d had a set-to with Evelyn in the parlour. She didn’t know why, though.”
Iris explained the background and that it stemmed from her finding Evelyn rifling through things at Shallow Brook Farm. “She was so keen to get away that time - she hit me.”
“She hit you?”
Iris nodded. “It made me pass out.”
“Blimey. And she’d taken a bit of a risk going there, hadn’t she?” Shelley mused.
“Evelyn had tried to make me ill so I wouldn’t be at work. The men were away fixing the fence in the North Field. So it wasn’t a massive risk.”
“But she wouldn’t have known they’d be away, would she?”
Suddenly another thought formed in Iris’s head. It was crazy, but then so were some of the things that had happened over the last few days. “What if she left the note?” Iris said.
“The note?”
“Who left the note for John and Martin? The note telling them to go to the North Field. The note about the sheep?”
Shelley shrugged, looking slightly unnerved. Iris guessed she was coming across like some sort of mad woman, but she couldn’t stop now, not while the train of thought was gripping her. She had to work it out as it came into her mind.
“And when they got there, there was no damage to the fence, was there?” Iris’s eyes lit up with a fervour and she didn’t wait for an answer. “So whoever sent that note knew it would be a wild goose chase that would get them out of the way! I need to speak to John or Martin. I need to find that note to see if the handwriting matched Evelyn’s!”
Perhaps that would be the proof that she needed for Finch to believe her. Perhaps that would stop whatever was going on. Perhaps that would stop Finch marrying the wretched woman.
The cascade of tumbling thoughts was abruptly curtailed by a voice calling from across the yard.
“Iris, love? I need to have a word.” It was Esther, dressed in a smart coat and hat. She was also wearing a smile that told Iris that something unpleasant was about to happen. She was here on business. And Iris knew that it would involve being reprimanded for her behaviour last night. Iris walked warily over to Esther as Shelley busied herself with clearing the yard.
“I’m really sorry, but things aren’t going well for you here,” Esther said. “We’ve discussed everything. The drinking, this business you’ve got into your head about Evelyn.”
“I can stop the drinking, Esther. I promise.”
“No, it’s too late,” Esther said, sympathetic to the desperate plea. “It’s affecting your mind. All these lies.”
“They’re not lies. Ask Martin about the note -”
“What note?” A hint of anger bristled in Esther’s voice, the softly spoken compassion
suddenly evaporating like dew on a warm morning. She didn’t want to hear any more of these tall stories. First a map and then a note. She didn’t want any more lies. Shelley looked over, intrigued as to what was happening. Esther flashed her a cold look that said to mind her own business and get on with her work. Shelley took the hint and moved away to sweep elsewhere.
“Evelyn left the note. The note that got them to go away. She must have done.” Iris soldiered on, pleading. She was aware that her words weren’t making much sense, but her mind was too muddled and tired and stressed to focus.
Esther moved her round to face her, holding her gently by the elbows. She looked tenderly into Iris’s eyes. “This has all come about because of Vernon. You’re worried that he’s somehow going to come back. But he’s not, love. He’s gone. And, believe me, I’m just as relieved as you are.”
“You?” Iris asked.
Esther smiled a small, unreadable smile, a forlorn pain in her eyes. Iris assumed that she wasn’t about to explain what she meant. The memories were obviously too painful, too unpleasant. “Let’s just say, I know what it’s like to be haunted by the memory of someone. Of him.” She kept hold of Iris’s elbows, gently holding her as if to ensure that she had her full attention. “We think it’s best if you start again. Somewhere else. Somewhere new. Somewhere without all this -”
She indicated the bleak, foreboding building of Shallow Brook Farm. A place of harrowing memories and darkness for both of them.
“I don’t want to go away!”
“It’s been decided, love.”
“No!”
“It’s what the Women’s Land Army wants for you.” And there it was, suddenly an official-sounding edict from above. The die had been cast and Iris’s future had been changed without her having any say in the matter. The courage she felt about taking charge of her destiny at the stream fizzled away as she realised nothing would change Esther’s mind, no matter how empowered Iris felt.