Land Girls, The Promise

by Roland Moore

  “Will she come here, do you think?”

  “Maybe. You should assume she will, eventually. She may be staying with someone she met, working out her next move,” Esther said, as kindly as she could manage, wanting to give Margot as much hope as possible.

  On the mantelpiece was a photograph, faded from the light from the window. It showed a woman who was obviously Margot with a young girl. Esther guessed by her features that it was Iris, aged around 10 years old. Next to them was a smiling man in a dapper suit with a pocket watch. As she sipped her tea, Margot noticed that Esther was looking.

  “That was us, happier times.”

  “Is that Mr Dawson, Iris’s father?” Esther enquired.

  Margot nodded with a heavy sadness that made Esther realise immediately that he wasn’t around any more. She worried that she had put her foot in it. Iris had rarely spoken about her family when she had been at Pasture Farm. But despite Esther’s unease, Margot seemed happy to talk. Perhaps she rarely got the chance.

  “My Ivor. A wonderful man, taken too early from us, God rest his soul,” she confirmed.

  “I’m sorry, I really am.”

  “Iris was never the same after,” Margot said, sighing.

  “Because of the grief?”

  Margot looked down at her cup, not wanting to meet the eyes of her guest. Then she looked up and said something that chilled Esther to the core.

  “No. Because she thought it was her fault.”

  Vernon strode ahead, the ominous cawing of crows in the distance as they walked through the dead forest. The trees were tall and skeletal with no branches until the canopies a hundred feet above their heads. Iris stayed behind Vernon, not keen to talk to him. He would glance back periodically, to check she was still trudging behind him. But he knew she would be there; she had no choice. His watch spun around on her wrist.

  They had waited outside the cottage, which Iris now knew was an isolated building down a dirt track. She felt small relief that she hadn’t shouted for help when she thought it might have been part of a denser clump of houses. They hid behind some bushes as Fred Finch arrived, watching as he checked the smell of his breath in his cupped hand and rapped on the door. Iris had found the whole situation truly bizarre, wanting to shout out as Finch walked down the path. Wanting to warn him. But she knew too much was at stake to mess things up. She stayed silent, under the watchful gaze of Vernon Storey, until Finch was greeted by Evelyn and he went inside. Iris heard Finch’s familiar chuckle as the door closed. Then, almost immediately, Vernon gave Iris a shove and told her to move off.

  And now here they were walking through the creepiest forest she had ever seen. They reached a country lane and Vernon pointed to the right.

  “It’s just under six miles to Pasture Farm -”

  “Six? I can’t run that far!”

  Vernon grinned. “You’ve got two hours to get there and back. And you’d better be back by nine on the dot.”

  Iris knew she couldn’t argue, so she was already moving quickly away from Vernon down the muddy slope that led to the lane. He watched as she reached the road and set off immediately, running as fast as she could.

  “And don’t tell anyone what you’re doing!” Vernon shouted as a parting shot.

  But Iris couldn’t hear him, she had already moved two hundred yards away. Vernon watched her go and smiled to himself. He sat down on a tree stump and took an apple out of his pocket; biting into it as he settled in for a long wait.

  Chapter 18

  The first mile was heavy-going, with everything feeling wrong. Iris felt her lungs bursting with the exertion, her bruised legs hurting with every footfall, and her wellington boots rubbing against her feet. But after that first mile, she started to find her stride, some sense of a rhythm to her steps, as, relentlessly, foot after foot hit the ground, driving her forward. She blocked out the pain in her feet; blisters had formed so early on that the injustice made her want to cry. Added to this, her damaged hand was throbbing as she jarred it with each footfall. She willed the terrain to become familiar so that she could recognise that she was close to Pasture Farm. But each corner only showed another unknown, seemingly identical section of lane, until that too gave way to another bend and another new section.

  And so it went on. Iris carried on running.

  She reached an isolated country pub, tucked into a recess in the lane. Its windows were shuttered up, but muffled voices and soft light emanated from within. Iris ran past the White Oak, mentally noting it as a marker for her return journey. She knew it would be important to catalogue every landmark as she knew she wouldn’t have much time to find her way back. And also it would be dark by then.

  Esther politely refused a third cup of tea and told Margot Dawson that she had better head off. She didn’t want to miss her train back to Helmstead. She thanked Margot for her hospitality and asked her to inform her when Iris showed up. Esther had purposefully used the word ‘when’ and not ‘if’. She wanted to leave Margot feeling positive and hopeful that she would see her daughter again. But Esther was beginning to wonder what had happened to Iris. They shook hands and said their goodbyes.

  “I’m sorry for crying,” Margot said on the doorstep. “I don’t normally get like that.”

  “It’s all right. I understand,” Esther said kindly. “It must have been a difficult time.”

  “But I shouldn’t have burdened you. You’re very nice, but you are a stranger.”

  “Please, don’t worry.” Esther smiled. “Thank you for telling me. It explains a lot.” And the statement was true. Now Esther understood Iris a lot more than she had before she had come to Northampton. She knew everything that had happened before she joined the Women’s Land Army. And it all made sense.

  Iris ran, but she had slowed to a steady pace, hoping it would enable her to run more of the distance than if she tried to sprint it. She knew she couldn’t sprint the entire distance. She wasn’t even sure she could run it, especially in her current state. But she had to soldier on. She had to try. Vernon’s watch swung its way around her wrist, a thin sheen of perspiration beneath it, and she had to pull at it to check the time. It was nearly twenty to eight. She had been running for forty minutes. The awful and terrifying thing was that she had no way of knowing how far she had run. It might be easier on the way back to landmark the journey since it would be familiar. But for the outward run, she had no real idea. She hoped with all her heart that she was nearly there. She calculated that, roughly, she needed to complete each leg of the journey in an hour.

  Otherwise Fred Finch would be -

  No, don’t think about that.

  The evening sky was beginning to turn purple. Iris feared losing the light, hoping there might be a fairly full moon tonight to help her. She reached a bend in the road and prayed a silent prayer that something familiar would be around the corner. Instead, it was her worst nightmare. Worse than just another stretch of tarmac that she didn’t recognise.

  It was a junction in the road.

  Ahead, veering off in a Y-shape was a lane to the left and a lane to the right. Neither had any defining features, both leading off onto near-identical country lanes. One would lead to Helmstead and one to somewhere else. Iris stopped, clasping her hands to her knees, dragging in a deep lungful of air. She could see the small, square-shaped hole in the grass at the intersection of the junction. The hole where the sign would have been. But there were no signs any more, not with a war on.

  Iris felt hot tears filling her eyes. What could she do? Pick the wrong turning and that would be the end. She would have no time to make a mistake.

  “Please …” Iris howled in frustration. Which way should she go? Why had Vernon not told her about this? Did he want her to fail?

  She couldn’t waste time worrying. She had to pick a path and hope for the best. It would be a gamble, but one with a fifty per cent chance of being in her favour. She ran to the left to see if she could make out anything familiar in that direction, and then s
he repeated the process with the right fork. Both hinted at similarly unknown terrain. She ran back to the junction, desperately trying to make a decision.

  With time running out, there was nothing she could do, other than take the largest gamble of her life.

  Iris took the left-hand fork and ran as fast as she could.

  Evelyn had laid on a lovely meal. As Finch tucked into the potatoes and rabbit stew, he tried to relax, slow down and take his time. The main thing was he wanted to avoid showering her with gravy as he spoke. So he tried to take small mouthfuls and swallow before he said anything. But the trouble was the food was so delicious and he had so much to say. Something had to give. Luckily, Evelyn seemed charming and relaxed, pleased that Finch was enjoying his food. She ate at a more sedate pace, fielding Finch’s excitable questions. How long had she been here? Did the chimney work? Did she need the chimney to work because he knew a man who could clear it? Who was in that photograph on the mantel? Had she ever seen Sparrow Soprano?

  “Who?” Evelyn said, genuinely baffled.

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter. She were an old act, couldn’t sing for toffee!” Finch mopped his brow with his napkin, wishing he could take his tie off. But he knew he had to keep it on, he had to stay respectable. The ring was in his pocket and he’d already contemplated popping the question twice, firstly when Evelyn had fetched him a welcome drink and secondly when they sat down to dinner. But he forced himself to wait. It wasn’t the right moment. He slurped at his drink, annoyed with himself for his lack of manners. He wasn’t used to eating with proper company present. Esther and the Land Girls didn’t count. They were always as ravenous as he was, and with their heads down in their plates they didn’t notice what he was doing.

  As Finch’s mind raced, and his eyes flickered nervously, he felt a warm, slender hand on his.

  “Just relax, Fred.” Evelyn smiled. “Enjoy the meal.”

  Finch nodded. He would do his best. He went to cut a piece of potato and it flicked onto the tablecloth. He felt mortified, until Evelyn flicked a potato from her plate onto the tablecloth too. “It’s all right,” she said.

  He relaxed and wondered how Evelyn Gray could be so perfect.

  In the twilight, with the time edging towards ten to eight, Iris watched her feet as she ran and ran. As she watched footfall after footfall, it was as if she was looking at something disconnected to herself. A machine of some kind. She passed a windmill on her left and was about to continue, when she stopped dead in her tracks. She recognised it! Oh My God! The shattered blade of one of its sails. She had seen it before, but the infuriating thing was she couldn’t place where she had seen it.

  Think, Iris, think.

  The shattered sail. Where had she seen it?

  Inexplicably, she thought about Finch’s son. Billy marrying the Land Girl. Why did the windmill make her think of that? Was her tired mind just playing tricks now? Iris wracked her brains, and then the answer came bubbling up from the recesses of her memory.

  She’d passed it with Finch when he drove her to Jordan Gate! Yes, he’d been talking about his son at the time!

  That’s when they’d passed the windmill.

  But which side was it on?

  Iris thought quickly to try to remember. It had been on the left-hand side. Yes, on the left. That meant that now she was going towards Jordan Gate and not Helmstead. No, no, no.

  Oh God, she was going the wrong way!

  Immediately, Iris turned and sped off, picking up the pace. Her feet felt soaked with perspiration. At least she hoped it was perspiration and not blood. But she ignored such worrying thoughts; she ignored the pain and she reached the junction. Now she knew that she had to go the other way and take the other turning, so she ran down the right-hand fork.

  Vernon’s wristwatch told her it was nearly eight. She should have completed her journey to the farm by now and be preparing to turn back. She had to find Pasture Farm very soon, otherwise it would be too late. She thought of Frank’s shed, where she hoped she would find the map. She hoped with all her heart that it would still be stowed in his emergency cigarette tin. But what if he’d destroyed it? Or moved it somewhere?

  No, don’t think about that.

  Iris had to believe it was in the shed, where it had been left.

  She continued running, running, running. The sound of her heavy boots padding on the road surface; the sound of her breathing, urgent and desperate.

  - black patent-leather shoes running over glistening cobbles -

  No, don’t think about that either.

  But as Iris ran around a corner, she felt suddenly elated. It couldn’t be! For a moment, she didn’t want to trust her own eyes. She recognised this stretch of road! It was one that led eventually to Helmstead. She knew the farm would be tucked some distance from one side of the lane as it snaked its way towards the village. Squinting as she ran, she could make out the low shape of the farmhouse set back from the lane. It was about four hundred yards away, but at least she could see it now. She knew a way to cut down the distance, leaping over a stile and running across one of the lower fields. She passed the patch of ground where the Land Girls would sometimes sit and take a tea break, the ground muddy and worn beneath the shade of some sycamore trees. Picking up the pace, Iris sprinted faster. She passed the disused barn on the outskirts of the land and soon found herself out of breath in the yard of Pasture Farm. There were a few lights on upstairs at the farmhouse, but she couldn’t hear any noise. The evening meal, if there had been one, was probably long over. Iris slowed her pace so that she could walk quietly without attracting attention. Frank’s shed was up ahead, in darkness. She assumed he was in the pub tonight, playing dominoes. That suited her perfectly as she didn’t have time for a discussion.

  Iris ducked inside the shed, lit the lamp and searched furiously through the stacks of papers. After a few minutes, she stopped being careful and started to throw the unwanted sheets and cuttings aside as she tried to find the tin. Finally, she heard it clatter to the floor. Found it!

  She picked it up, opened it and, to her relief, she found a small yellowing sheet, folded in half. Iris opened it up and checked it was the map. Yes! Frank had kept it. She fought to calm herself, blew out the lamp and left the shed. She was about to run off, tucking the map in her dungaree pocket, as she went, when -

  “Iris?”

  The voice was soft, kind, but tinged with confusion. Iris spun around, knowing before she turned who it belonged to. Martin Reeves. He had a mug of tea in his hand and a daft smile on his face. “Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick. My mum’s gone to -”

  “I haven’t got time, Martin. I’ve got to go.” And she sped off.

  But Martin threw his tea away and ran after her, catching her arm. “Wait! What’s happening?”

  “I can’t stay, and I can’t tell you,” Iris said, near to tears. She needed to go. She needed to focus. This was all too much, the strain of running, the worry of not getting back in time. “I’ve got to get to Finch! Please!”

  And she raced off. Martin looked anxiously after her as she disappeared back across the field into the darkness. He made a decision, putting his mug on the ground. He walked quickly over to the stables, opened the door and lead out Frank’s pony. Martin didn’t really like horses, but he did his best to pat its nose to calm it down. He’d seen Frank do that. Gently he pulled the animal across the yard, its hooves clip-clopping as it went. He moved it near to the trap, which was upended like an empty rickshaw, and tried to coax it between the harness poles. After a few failed attempts, Martin was about to give up, when Frank ambled into the yard, his face red from a good evening in the Bottle and Glass.

  “What are you doing, son?” he asked.

  “I’ve got to follow Iris,” Martin replied.

  “Iris? She’s back?”

  “Yes, but she wasn’t making much sense. She ran off. That way!” Martin was grateful as Frank took the reins of the pony and led it round in a circle, before w
alking it between the harness poles. Martin didn’t have time to contemplate how he made it look so easy. “She was talking about getting to Finch!”

  “Why?” Frank fastened the leather straps around the animal. “I hope she’s not going to stop him proposing.”

  “I don’t know. It seemed more serious than that.”

  “Not to Finch it isn’t.”

  “No, she seemed really worried. I’ve never seen her like that.”

  “Come on.”

  Martin didn’t need asking twice. He jumped up in the seat. Frank clambered up beside him. He chivvied the pony with the reins and they left the yard. As soon as they got to the lane, Frank picked up the pace.

  Iris ran, with little style or technique, but she reached the crossroads. She glanced at the watch. It was nearly half-past eight. Her heart sank and she struggled not to scream in frustration. It had taken her forty minutes to get to this junction on the outward journey. That meant she was ten minutes short of time to make the return journey.

  Don’t be late. Finch will be -

  Iris had no choice but to increase her pace. Aware that she was making an involuntary whimpering noise as she ran, she soldiered on, trying to blot out everything; the stitch in her side, the soreness of her feet, the pain in her chest, the throbbing ache in her damaged fingers. She had to focus everything on what she was doing. She couldn’t afford to lose concentration and think about -

  - Black, patent-leather shoes, running full pelt across the cobbles -

  Suddenly, Iris stumbled and fell hard onto the road, grazing her chin. She winced at the pain in her injured hand. She had tried to stop her fall by putting out her hands, but she had only succeeded in pushing her splinted fingers back, causing excruciating pain. Iris writhed on the ground. She was breathing heavily and she felt suddenly exhausted.

  I can’t go on. I just can’t do it.