The Clouded Land

by Mary Mackie

‘Would you care?’

  ‘Of course I would care! Oliver…’

  He caught me in his arms, pulling me to him, his mouth finding mine in a savage kiss that told me how jealous he was of those younger men below, heroes bearing wounds that told of their courage, while he had to remain behind. ‘Then prove it,’ he muttered, holding me tight against his body so that I felt his arousal. ‘Let me make love to you. Here. Now.’

  ‘We can’t—’

  ‘You must! I want you. I need you.’ He was pushing me backwards, his mouth hot on my neck. I felt the edge of the couch-bed behind my legs. I overbalanced, falling on my back with Oliver on top of me. His mouth silenced my protests while his hand raked up my skirt, roughly seeking a way inside my undergarments, fumbling at his buttons to expose himself.

  Then a light played round the room. A thin beam. Lightning? No – a torch. Its beam shone full in my eyes, blinding me. ‘Katie!’ said Tom’s worried voice. ‘Are you all right?’

  With a roar like a wounded bear, Oliver heaved himself off the bed, shouting, ‘Thomas, you—— ——’ The light caught him, found him with shirt tail out, trying to make himself decent. He leaned over the rail guarding the stairs, grabbing for Tom, who ducked and threw up his arm. I heard the blow as his torch hit Oliver’s hand. Oliver roared again, swearing bitterly. The torch clattered to the stairs. Its light winked out, leaving me blind. I heard Tom yell as he ran, while Oliver scrambled for the torch and flung it after the fleeing intruder. I think it hit the door as Tom slammed it shut.

  I sat up, breathing hard as if I had been running, blood pounding painfully in my temple as I peered through the darkness to where I could hear his hoarse breathing. ‘Oliver?’

  ‘Bloody little peeping Tom!’ he grated.

  ‘He didn’t intend—’

  ‘Of course he intended it! Or is he in the habit of creeping into your room at night?’

  I was so disgusted by the implications of that question that I couldn’t think of an immediate reply. Then, in a low, sick voice, I told him, ‘That is a foul thing to say.’

  ‘I only meant… he might come without your knowing it. While you’re asleep. I’m sorry. I’m angry. Do you blame me?’

  ‘Before I go to bed,’ I said, ‘I always bolt the door. Tom wouldn’t hurt me, but he sometimes likes to play jokes.’ I had never, ever had reason to fear poor Tom. ‘I only wish,’ I added, ‘that I had bolted my door this evening.’

  His silence told me he had taken the point.

  Then, in that silence, we both heard a new sound: an engine, low and distant, but distinct. It sounded like a heavy transport wagon such as the military used. But the road was a long way away. Even with the window open we should not have been able to hear—

  ‘It’s an aircraft!’ Oliver muttered.

  Dear God! A bombing raid? I threw myself to my knees on the window seat under the open casement, leaning to push the pane wide as I peered out, searching among the stars for a glimmer of artificial light. I could see nothing, but the noise grew louder, a steady, grinding roar like no aircraft I had ever heard. Oliver also came to the window, opening the next pane, staring at the sky…

  Suddenly my eyes adjusted and there it was – a vast black shape blotting out the stars. I hadn’t seen it because I hadn’t been looking for anything of that size. A great ship. An airship.

  ‘It’s a Zeppelin!’

  As we looked at each other, our hands met and clasped in mutual comfort before we turned again to stare at the sky. We knew of such things, of course. We had been told about them in magazines, seen pictures in illustrated weeklies. But this was different. Real. Menacing. The noise of its engine shook the tower, rattled windows, reverberated in my blood and bones. I saw two white lights and one green, vivid against the enormous black bulk. It swam so low we might have touched it. A great shuddering juggernaut, horribly beautiful, it sailed over the woods gulping up stars and spitting them out behind it. A harbinger of hell.

  Neither of us said anything that I remember. We were both caught in helpless awe, like pheasants frozen before an inescapable enemy, simply watching, waiting, hardly breathing.

  ‘Oliver—’ But as I spoke there came a long hissing sound, then a strange confused flare of light from beyond the woods, and a deafening, crumping crash that made me throw my hands over my ears, crying out at the pain in my head. When I opened my eyes, everything was still. Except that the Zeppelin droned on, moving away.

  It had dropped a bomb. Somewhere near Far Drove Farm. Philip’s home.

  Philip’s father…

  * * *

  Not waiting to see more, we ran down to where other occupants of the house had gathered on the terrace in animated groups. In the ballroom, patients craned from their beds. Others hobbled on crutches, or came in wheelchairs, all exclaiming and discussing, not so much afraid as excited over the drama and spectacle. The great black shape in the sky was heading for Sandringham, where the royal family had lately been in residence.

  ‘The first bomb came down beyond the woods,’ someone said, pointing.

  ‘First bomb?’ I heard myself repeat in horror.

  ‘There were two! Didn’t you see…’ Several voices joined in, telling how the second bomb had fallen further away, on the other side of the village. ‘But the first flash was quite near – over in that direction. Isn’t there a farm down there? Should someone go and see if…’

  I found myself in the forefront of the group that went looking for torches, lanterns, bicycle lamps. As I raced back into the staircase hall, Oliver grasped my arm, saying, ‘You’re not to go.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I say so. Stay indoors. Let the others—’

  ‘I’m going!’ I wrenched free of his grasp, almost hating him. ‘Don’t you understand? He’s my grandfather. Isn’t he?’

  Oliver went still, as if I had hit him, and I hurried away.

  Warmly wrapped against the freezing night, we made through the woods – Emmet in the lead, with one of the doctors, myself, three of the nurses and, hobbling gamely behind, two of the more mobile patients. Oliver had tagged along, too. The woods seemed eerily dark and silent, as if the wildlife had all gone to ground.

  Gaining the short-cut lane, we hurried between its tall hedges. Then Emmet let out a yell, ‘Hold it!’ and beam by beam our lights descried the outlines of a low barrier of earth and broken branches thrown across our path. No, not another obstacle dug by Mad Jack, but the edge of a crater some twenty feet across. We stood on it, probing its dimensions with our lights. The bomb had demolished part of the hedge, gouging a deep hole, leaving only a few feet of grass beside the further hedge. Thank God it was here, not near the farmhouse.

  ‘Who’s that?’ a voice roared out of the darkness – unmistakably Mad Jack’s voice. He appeared on the far edge of the crater, a shadow with a lantern swinging in his hand and a black dog at heel.

  ‘We’re from Denes Hill,’ the doctor sang out. ‘Anyone hurt? If there’s anything we—’

  But at the mention of Denes Hill, the old man laughed hoarsely. ‘You can go back and tell ’em I’d like to see ’em use this lane now! Blast! That Hun airship done just what I’ve been a-prayin’ for.’ Another howl of raucous laughter split the night as he slapped his knee. ‘Tell ’em I ordered it, special. Invited them Jerries over, just to dig this great hole! Blast, that’ll—’ The words choked off. The lantern swung wildly, and dropped, its pale light washing over him as he toppled, sliding down the far side of the crater to lie sprawled on the fresh earth. The dog leapt to the rim and stood there, barking alarm.

  Impelled by panic, my thoughts all for Philip, I launched myself down the muddy slope and threw myself to my knees beside him. ‘Mr Farcroft!’ My torch showed his face yellowy-pale with pain and fear, three-day beard bristling as he muttered curses.

  ‘It’s my leg. My blasted leg!’

  The doctor joined me, kneeling in the mud to make a swift examination by the light of the torch I held. The
others gathered round, and, above us, the dog kept barking. I seem to remember snapping, ‘Quiet, Boss!’ but it ignored me, subsiding only when the old man snarled, ‘Hush up, bor!’

  After a while, the doctor said, ‘He’s torn his calf muscle, quite badly. He won’t be able to walk. Is there anyone at the farm?’

  ‘No, there en’t,’ Mad Jack growled. ‘I live alone.’

  Didn’t Lou Roughton live at the farm? I wondered. Wasn’t she now Philip’s wife? I wanted to ask, but daren’t.

  The doctor looked up at the circle of faces round us. ‘We need some kind of stretcher.’

  ‘I’ll go and see,’ Emmet offered. ‘Come on, Oliver.’ And he set off to climb the crater’s slope, tramping and sliding in fresh damp earth. After a moment’s hesitation, with a black look for me, Oliver followed. Only then did I realize he had no coat over his dress suit – he had rushed out after me without thought for his own comfort. His glower warned me that I was already showing too much involvement, that this was none of my concern. Oh, but it was, it was! Philip would be so worried, feel so guilty for being away. What would the old man do now?

  They brought back a wicker hurdle, on which Mad Jack lay muttering imprecations to himself as the men carried him to the house. One of the wounded officers had lost his right hand but valiantly used his left for carrying the hurdle. His friend, leaning on a crutch with his foot heavily bound, hobbled alongside and opened gates for them, while I took charge of Boss, holding him by the collar, the nurses beside me. We felt caught up in some awful, exciting adventure – the war had that effect on everyone.

  At the farm, lamps glowed and the fire blazed brightly in the main room. Philip had grown up here, and Michael, my father. They had probably, each in his turn, climbed on the couch, laboured over books at the big table by the window, lain with the dogs on the hearthrug by the fire. Down those stairs Philip and I had come, hand in hand. Had Mother and Michael done the same, in their time? Too many memories lingered here.

  While the nurses helped Mad Jack to his couch, where Saffron had rested with newborn Eddy beside her, I hovered anxiously. He kept looking at me – I suppose I was the only familiar face in the group. I wanted to help him, but Oliver’s hand on my arm prevented me. Perhaps he was right – if I made too much fuss, someone might wonder why.

  ‘You stay and assist me, Miss Mulligan,’ the doctor instructed one of the nurses. ‘The rest of you may as well go, we don’t need an audience here. Miss Mulligan and I will manage. Perhaps someone would go for the local doctor – he ought to know about this.’

  ‘I will,’ Emmet offered.

  ‘Me, too, old man,’ the two wounded officers volunteered in the same breath, eager to be back in action.

  The doctor almost denied them, but decided against it with a shake of his head and an understanding grin. ‘Which leaves you, Mr Wells, to escort these three ladies back, if you will.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Oliver smiled tightly, his hand insistent on my arm. He couldn’t wait to get me away. ‘Ladies…’

  As I left, I saw the old man’s expression – anxious and angry at the same time. He hated me, but he wished I wouldn’t leave him alone, in pain and with strangers. Would he tell Philip I had abandoned him in his need?

  * * *

  During our walk back, the two nurses chattered excitedly, but Oliver said little. When we reached the lights of Denes Hill, I realized why: his elegant shoes and evening suit were thick with mud, and cobwebs festooned his hair. The rest of us were similarly daubed, but accepted it as a result of our excursion; Oliver evidently blamed me for forcing him into an undignified escapade.

  ‘Don’t!’ He flinched away when I reached to remove the cobweb. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and tidy myself up. And then I shall go home. I’ve early appointments tomorrow.’

  Not wanting the evening to end like that, I went down to the yard to wait for him near his car. But lanternlight drew me to the stable, where old Willow was now the sole resident. I found Tom in there, huddled shivering in a nest of straw in an empty stall, with the little dog, Jim, cradled in his arms. As the door creaked, Tom looked up, lamplight glinting gold in streaks of tears under his eyes.

  ‘Tom!’ I exclaimed in concern, going to bend over him.

  ‘I didn’t mean anything!’ he wept. ‘I didn’t, Kate. I wanted to make you jump. And then there was something in the sky, and a big noise. It scared me. Oliver did it. He sent it to get me!’

  Impulsively I sank down beside him, cradling his tousled golden head to my shoulder as he sobbed against me like a child. I tried to explain about the Zeppelin and the bombs, but he couldn’t seem to grasp the idea of unknown enemies sending war machines to hurt us.

  After a while, I heard Oliver cranking his car in the yard.

  ‘No!’ Tom cried when I tried to get up, his hands fastening on my coat to hold me down. ‘Don’t go to him. Let him go. Let him go!’

  ‘It’s only Oliver, Tom,’ I reasoned. ‘I need to talk to him.’

  ‘No! No, I don’t want you to. He’ll hurt you again! I hate him. I hate him, Kate.’

  He wouldn’t let me go. He wept and pleaded so urgently that I feared for him. ‘All right, Tom.’ I settled back in the straw, cradling him in my arms, telling myself I could make my peace with Oliver later. ‘But he won’t hurt you, you know. He was only angry because you crept up on us.’

  ‘He was hurting you.’

  ‘No, he wasn’t.’

  ‘He was! He likes to hurt.’

  ‘You mustn’t say things like that,’ I chided. Poor Tom, everything was so immediate with him. Because Oliver had lost his temper in the turret, Tom had decided he must be an ogre. He even imagined that Oliver had summoned the Zeppelin to punish him. Poor Tom.

  Twenty-One

  I sat comforting Tom until his weight grew heavy across my lap and I realized he was asleep. Reluctant to disturb him, I let him rest, intending to wake him shortly. But the events of the day caught up with me and the next thing I knew I was waking, still in the straw in the stable, with dawn light filtering through high windows.

  Voices in the yard had disturbed me. Some of the staff slept in the loft over the stable and others came in from the village; they were arriving for duty, chattering excitedly.

  Tom and I went with them and shared a pot of tea, while around us girls began to stoke up fires and cooks prepared early breakfasts, everyone talking about the Zeppelin and the two bombs.

  ‘That nearly killed poor old Mr Farcroft,’ one of the girls gossiped. ‘He had a heart attack, so I now heard.’

  ‘That was a stroke,’ another argued.

  Heart attack? Stroke? Dear Lord, was the old man really ill?

  ‘Who’ll do for him with Mrs Gaywood not there?’ the girl added. ‘Well, din’t you know that second bomb now blasted a hole in her house? She’re in a proper to-do. They took her away to stay with her daughter in Lenhoe.’

  A third girl, ruddy-faced with sparkling eyes, laughed, ‘Well, that’ll give Lou Roughton a good excuse to come a-runnin’ over from Heacham, playin’ nursemaid. Master Philip’ll be wholly grateful to whoever take care of the old bor, and I reckon Lou still have hope in that direction.’

  Before I could stop myself, I said, ‘I’d heard they were engaged.’

  ‘Engaged?!’ They all giggled at that and the ruddy one exclaimed, ‘Don’t know where you heard that, Miss Kate, ’less you listened in to Lou Roughton’s dreams!’

  Carrying a tray to the dining room for the nurses’ breakfasts, I encountered Vicky on the back stairs, looking fresh and pretty in her starched uniform. Against the ornate white cap her red-blonde hair looked extra bright. She had a glow about her lately. Love had done wonders for her disposition. Sadly, I had to mar her happiness.

  ‘You look as if you’ve slept in a stable,’ she observed, removing a piece of straw from my sleeve and noting the mud on my clothes.

  ‘I’ve been with Tom. He was really upset last night.’

 
; ‘Poor Tom.’ But she hadn’t time to worry about her brother just then. ‘Shall I take that tray?’

  ‘Thank you. Vicky… I’m afraid I’ve some bad news. I should have told you last night. I was waiting until after the party, but with the Zeppelin and everything… You know I went over to Lenhoe yesterday? There was a telegram. James… was killed, two days ago.’

  Her eyes dilated, very blue in her pale face. ‘Oh, no! What fearful news for Emmet, just as he’s going back to the show. Is David all right?’

  ‘As far as they know.’ Before I could say more she turned away, taking the tray, saying that she would break the news to Emmet and her mother. The sheen of tears in her eyes made my own throat feel thick.

  I went up to the sanctum, washed myself hastily and put on more serviceable clothes. I had an appointment in Hunstanton with the local organizer of the National Egg Collection, but first… I couldn’t help myself: an irresistible urge beckoned me back to Far Drove.

  * * *

  In the farmyard, I encountered an elderly worker just leaving the house. He slid me a sidelong look, saying, ‘He en’t well. You’ll have to go in the house and call. And then duck, right smart, afore he throw somethin’.’

  But it was Boss who met me as I opened the door and went into the dark front hall. The dog stood in the parlour doorway, barking like a fury.

  ‘Hush up, Boss!’ the snarl came from inside the room and, ‘Who’s that? Show yore face.’

  I did so, and found him on his feet. Leaning heavily on a stick, with his left foot held off the ground, he bent over the hearth with a log in one hand, making up the fire from earlier embers.

  I had half expected a torrent of abuse as a greeting, but instead, as narrowed eyes registered my identity, he said nothing. The longcase clock in a corner tocked the seconds, and the fire crackled and spat as fresh logs caught, while Philip’s father regarded me with hooded, hostile eyes.

  ‘I came to see how you are,’ I said.