by Mary Mackie
‘Hah!’ he snorted. ‘Do you care?’
‘I just… I was concerned about you. With Philip away… is it just your leg?’
‘En’t a gammy leg enough?’ he demanded.
So much for kitchen gossip! Still, I was relieved it was not worse.
Moving awkwardly, he pushed the last log on to the fire, then levered himself away from the hearth, limped back to the couch and sat down, reaching for a blanket that lay crumpled there. ‘Blast! As if I hen’t got trouble enough. Who’s going to do all the work? My men off to the army and Mrs Gaywood now gone to Lenhoe…’
‘I expect someone from the village will look in on you later.’
‘I don’t need nobody. But,’ he slanted me a dark look under bristling brows, ‘since you’re here, go fill the kettle and put that on the hob. I’m spittin’ feathers.’
In the kitchen, dank and cold with the fire out, I pumped water to fill the kettle and took it back to the main room, setting it on the hob plate and swinging it over the fire. As I straightened, I saw on the mantel two photographs in ornate silver frames, one of Michael Farcroft – my father, I thought with a pang – the other a recent portrait of Philip in his dress uniform, taken in a studio. My heart contracted as I picked up the frame and smoothed my fingers on the glass. Philip looked out beneath the proud peak of his military cap, straight and tall, gloves in one hand, the other resting on the hilt of a sword. His pose echoed that of Carl-Heinz in the photo I had once cherished, except that Carl-Heinz had worn an arrogant sneer and Philip was smiling. Philip… Oh, my darling…
When Mad Jack spoke from behind me I was so startled I almost dropped the photo. My fingers clutched it, holding it to my heart as I spun round and saw the farmer frowning at me. He said, ‘You can put that back where it belong.’
I did so, reluctantly, croaking through stiff lips, ‘How is he?’
‘Steady,’ he said at once with a touch of paternal pride. ‘Pleased to be doin’ his duty. What’d you expect? He en’t breakin’ his heart over you, missy. Got more sense than that.’
‘I…’ I cleared the catch from my throat, said, ‘I’m glad,’ and took myself back to the kitchen where, trembling, I found a tray and laid it with breakfast things. A jug of milk sat under a beaded cloth, on a marble shelf in the larder. I poured some into a glass for the old man.
He drank it gratefully, managing to spill some of it down his front. He allowed me to mop him dry, and as I straightened he cocked a beady eye at me, his face marred by those three red scars. ‘What’re you doing here, girl? That won’t do you no good moonin’ after my Philip.’
‘I’m not here because of Philip. Not the way you mean.’ I stood in front of him, staring at my hands, twisting the ruby ring on my finger. ‘I never meant to hurt him. But I had to stop seeing him. You see—’
‘I don’t want to hear no more. Best you go away. Go away and forget him – the way your mother forgot Michael.’
Stung by that, I looked directly at him, seeing his frown waver through a skim of tears. ‘You’re wrong, Mr Farcroft – my mother didn’t forget about your son. She had good reason to remember him. She had me.’ I let him think about that for a moment, then, ‘I’m your granddaughter, Mr Farcroft. I’m Michael’s daughter. Perhaps now you understand why I had to give Philip up – we’re too closely related.’
In the silence, I heard the kettle begin to sing faintly under the tock-tick of the old clock. Boss came padding to his master’s side and the farmer put out a hand, absently pulling the dog’s ear, his eyes intent on my face. I could see him thinking back, making calculations.
After aeons, he said gruffly, ‘How’d you make that out?’
‘Your wife knew. She wrote to warn my grandfather. I can bring you the letter, if you want to see it. She had caught them together. In the hay loft. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you, especially when you’re not well. But I can’t bear knowing that Philip hates me.’
His eyes had narrowed to slits. ‘Blast…’ he said under his breath. ‘I was told there’d been words said. Then Clara was sent away, up north. Best that way, so my old girl reckon. Best off with her own sort, she say – and I reckoned she was right. Never did take to her comin’ here, putting notions in my boy’s head, making him neglect his work. He missed her, blasted fool. Mooned about like a sick calf. But I had other things on my mind. Bad harvests, falling prices. I had a farm to run, and a family to raise.’ He rubbed his left thigh as if it ached. ‘Then she come back…’
The fire spat; a log shifted and sank, sending a shower of golden spades up the blackened chimney. The kettle sang more loudly and Jack Farcroft rasped a hand across his stubbled chin, saying, ‘That wan’t the same. She was then a wealthy widow, with gentry chasing after her. Didn’t want to know us Farcrofts no more.’ He stared into space, his brow dark as he remembered. ‘I didn’t know what was afoot. Too busy to see what was going on right under my nose – my boy hoping again, and her…’
‘Did he know about me? Do you think she told him?’
‘I reckon she… No.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s no good me making up what I don’t know. Fact is, I never did understand what was eating the boy. Thought he’d got slack and lazy. I rode him hard. Too hard, maybe. He ’ouldn’t talk to me about feelings. Kept that for his mother. He was soft, that boy. Too easy led. When Clara got wed and went away – right away, abroad – I was glad. But he never got over it.’ He stared at the fire, his eyes glistening. ‘Got careless, he did. That day he was ploughing… They came running for me, but by the time I got there he was sinking, the lifeblood running out of him into the soil. “Don’t fret,” he say. “Don’t fret, Dad. That don’t make no nevermind.” And he just let go. Died, in my arms. Smiling. Glad to be gone. Blast, girl…’
He turned his head away, brushing his sleeve across his eyes. Moved by his grief, I stared at the photos of his two sons on the mantel, seeing the family likeness. But Michael was darker, thinner, almost gaunt – shadowed, perhaps, by his sorrow over the girl he had lost and the child he had never known. Had he guessed I was his daughter?
‘I’m sorry,’ I breathed. ‘I’m desperately sorry. For all of us. I know you don’t believe I cared for Philip, but—’
‘He never believed it, neither,’ the harsh voice informed me. ‘He en’t soft like Michael was. He have a good head on his shoulders. Good solid sense. He knew it ’ouldn’t last. You from the hill and him from the farm? No, maw, that never set fair to come to nothing and Philip knew it. “Let’s go tell them,” he say, and you say, “We can’t.” “Let’s get wed,” he say, and you don’t answer.’
I could hardly speak for misery. ‘He told you about that?’
‘We talked.’
‘I see.’ So Philip hadn’t trusted me. Every word I’d spoken to him, every word I’d written to him, every time I’d been in his arms… ‘He told me he was going to marry Lou Roughton.’
‘Did he, now?’ He wasn’t about to share his son’s secrets with me.
Feeling my engagement ring under my fingers, I looked down at it, caught by a heavy sense of finality. Until that moment, I believe I had entertained lingering hopes that the tale of my illegitimacy might be false. Now I knew that it was true, and perhaps he had suspected it, in his heart. So my last tiny hope evaporated. Displaying the ring for the old man to see, I said, ‘I’m engaged myself. You might tell Philip that, when you write. I’m going to marry Oliver Wells.’
He might not have heard. He watched me, his face still, intent on his own thoughts. Was he seeking some family resemblance, or—
Outside, footsteps accompanied a murmur of voices, a knock on the door. Boss rushed to confront the intruders, barking loudly until a bass command silenced him. Then a trilling female voice called, ‘You now there, Mr Farcroft? That’s on’y me – Maisie Pike.’ She appeared in the doorway, a skinny woman with a pointed nose like a fox, peering through thick glasses under a large hat. ‘I’ve got my Ruth with me. And we met Sergeant Playford in the lane, a-co
min’ to see about that— Oh.’ She had come far enough into the room to realize, despite her short sight, that the farmer was not alone. Behind her, a girl of about twelve hung back as if scared to enter the ogre’s den, while the burly figure of Police Sergeant Playford, from Hunstanton, filled the doorway.
‘Well, now,’ the sergeant said, his investigator’s mind drawing all kinds of wrong conclusions. ‘Miss Brand.’
‘Good morning, Sergeant,’ I greeted as levelly as I could. ‘I’m glad you’ve come. Mr Farcroft is going to need some help and I have work to do. I just called in to see how he was.’
‘Good of you, miss,’ he said, but I knew he was speculating.
I took my leave, wishing Mad Jack a speedy recovery. His expression said he wished the lot of us to the devil. Mrs Pike was already starting to fuss round, telling him what he needed and what he must do.
* * *
In a daze of uncertainty, wondering if I had done the right thing in going to the farm, I completed my errand in Hunstanton and returned to Lynn.
The Zeppelin attack dominated all conversation: enemy airships had sailed down the edge of the Wash, passing over the coastal villages, dropping a few indiscriminate bombs as they went. Minimal damage had been done, until the craft arrived over Lynn. There, two streets lay in ruins; people had been injured by flying fragments, and a woman and a small boy had been killed – shocking confirmation that, in this war, danger threatened us all, even in our own homes.
I tried to phone Oliver from my office at Chef Foods, but his clerk said he was out on business. Then I was called to help when one of our girls cut her hand badly and another fainted at sight of the blood. In the noisy, steamy cannery I was trying to restore calm when George Chorley came puffing up, red-faced, with two sturdy women behind him wearing armbands of the newly formed women’s Police Volunteers.
‘Are you Catherine Brand?’ one of them asked, laying officious hold of my shoulder. ‘I have orders to arrest you on suspicion of being an enemy spy.’ And right there, in front of half the workforce of Chef Foods, she fastened a pair of handcuffs round my wrists.
* * *
On the recreation ground, behind a high fence of barbed wire, temporary wooden huts had been erected to house German internees. As I was bundled up the steps into one of these huts, I saw Harald Ehrenfried’s pale, startled face. He called, ‘Miss Brand!’ but the policewomen thrust me through the door and slammed it behind us. They put me in a side room, empty but for a bench and table, its small window frosted and thickly barred. Better than the cell under the Town Hall, but not much.
With my hands still shackled, I paced the room, letting my shoes rap loudly on the bare board floor to indicate my fury at the way I had been handled. No one had bothered to inform me what crime I was supposed to have committed. Why, suddenly, was I accused of being a spy?
Two hours later, the policewomen returned and led me to another room, furnished with basic desk, chairs and a row of filing cabinets. On the wall behind the desk hung a picture of the King, and beneath it sat the lugubrious Inspector Jarvis. To my relief, Oliver was there, too.
‘Oliver! Thank heaven, I was beginning—’
‘Say nothing,’ he counselled sharply. ‘Inspector, is it really necessary for Miss Brand to be handcuffed?’
Jarvis nodded at one of the policewomen, who came to unlock my bonds. Rubbing my wrists, I sat down on the edge of a hard chair, with Oliver beside me, and the questioning began.
The inspector seemed fascinated by my movements the previous day: he even asked about sleeping arrangements at Denes Hill: ‘So you’re in the habit of using the top room in the house?… Did you go up about nine thirty last evening?… How long were you there?… Were you alone?… What were you doing?’
How could I reveal what had happened in the sanctum last night? ‘I had a headache!’ I repeated for the tenth time, wondering if my face was as scarlet as it felt.
‘You see, the thing is, Miss Brand,’ the inspector went on, talking through his black bush of moustache, ‘we’ve had a report of bright lights shining from the top room at Denes Hill last night, just before the German airships came over. At least two people in Eveningham village saw lights flash, as if signalling. And this morning you visited Mr John Farcroft, at his farm, which was also showing lights last night. I understand Mr Farcroft openly boasted of having arranged for the airships to come.’
I stared at him, my mind whirling. Where did these stories begin? As the insane interview went on, I gathered that someone had repeated Mad Jack’s ravings of the previous night – probably Emmet, or one of the wounded officers, when they went to find the doctor. Begun as a joke, the story had gathered interest as it spread, until it reached the ears of the police as a clear claim of culpability. And, since I had been found at the farm, by Sergeant Playford of all people…
‘Only a fool would take Jack Farcroft for a German sympathizer!’ I exclaimed.
Not pleased at being called a fool, Jarvis demanded, ‘Then why were you there? I understand there’s no love lost between your family and the Farcrofts. Or is that just a smokescreen?’
I told what had happened after the bombs dropped. I tried to explain that I had gone back on neighbourly impulse. He didn’t believe me. Mad Jack and I had obviously been in league, guiding the Zeppelins towards the King’s home at Sandringham. Did I deny showing lights in my room?
‘Of course I deny it! How could I have made a bright light when there’s neither gas nor electricity at Denes Hill? And, you can’t see the house from the village – there are too many trees. So which clairvoyant reported these lights? I didn’t even light a lamp.’
‘Unfortunately,’ he said, ‘we have only your word for that.’
‘No…’ Oliver said slowly. ‘No, inspector, I can corroborate Miss Brand’s story. She was not showing any light whatsoever.’
The inspector surveyed him with interest. ‘Go on, Mr Wells.’
‘We were together, some while before the Zeppelin went over. We both saw it. We watched the first bomb drop, and saw it explode, after which we went down to join the others – as Miss Brand has explained.’
Jarvis’s yardbroom moustache fairly danced on his lip. ‘You were together? Just the two of you? In Miss Brand’s room? In total darkness? For what purpose, may I ask?’
‘What the devil do you think our purpose was, man?’ Coldly angry now, Oliver got to his feet, imposing in the tawdry room. ‘Miss Brand and I are engaged to be married. We had other things on our minds than signalling to enemy ships! But that is neither here nor there. I very much resent your prurient intrusion into our private affairs. As to these outrageous charges… be sure we shall not sit idle under such slander. This is the second time you’ve seen fit to arrest my fiancée on a flimsy pretext. I suggest you hire yourself a good lawyer.’
Under the Defence of the Realm Act, however, the police had powers to arrest anyone they suspected of enemy activities; so litigation was out of the question. Nor did Oliver’s protests have immediate effect – except to annoy Jarvis even further. Though he had no evidence, nothing but gossip and a few wild stories told by hysterical people, he decided to detain me while he made ‘further enquiries’.
During the few days while I stayed in the camp, I met many people with little more cause than I to be there. Most of them hated the German regime as much as any Briton. But perhaps their imprisonment, as well as neutralizing possible enemies in our midst, offered them protection: feeling against anyone with German connections ran high and hot in those days, as I was beginning to understand to my cost.
In the wake of the airship raid, the German press claimed to have attacked ‘fortified places’. When the true nature of their targets was revealed, they justified their barbarism by saying they had acted in self-defence, having been fired on by civilians with rifles. In fact, the Zeppelin commanders had been hopelessly lost.
Wild rumour trickled through to us in our incarceration: the Zeppelins had been guided from the grou
nd by spies shining lights from houses and motor vehicles. Two men at a Hunstanton hotel were implicated – they had worn British uniform, but had stood in the dining room with their hands in their pockets and their hats on, and they had shared a double room, with a double bed – obviously they were not British! Witnesses reported seeing the airships pass over arrayed in banks of lights, or black as pitch; people had seen the enemy crew staring down, and heard them converse in their guttural tongue: one old lady had even heard the villains shovelling coal to fuel their engine! Hysteria ruled.
As the initial panic faded, the authorities decided they had no case against me. Since I was indisputably British by blood and birth, as my family vociferously reminded them, they released me.
Once again, Oliver arrived to take me home.
Outside wooden gates strung with barbed wire, I hurled myself into his arms and held him tightly, relief making me laugh and cry at the same time. I felt him return the embrace fiercely. Voice muffled against my coat collar, he said, ‘I love you, Kate.’
‘Oh, I love you, too,’ I wept, and at that moment it was true. I felt in need of a strong refuge. When he kissed me, not caring who saw us there in the chilly dusk by the recreation ground, I felt the deep emotion in him and I let myself believe all might be well for us. I did love him. Not quite the way I loved Philip – I should never love any man as I had loved Philip – but what I felt for Oliver was enough. In this life, anyway.
All solicitous concern, he helped me into his car and tucked a travelling rug round me, then cranked the engine into life and settled beside me, gloved hands on the wheel, staring at the windshield. ‘Just one thing I need to know,’ he said, and turned clear dark eyes to my face. ‘Why did you go to the farm that morning?’
‘I was concerned about Mr Farcroft. His housekeeper was hurt by that second bomb. He was all alone. He is my grandfather, Oliver.’
‘So you keep saying. Did you tell him that?… Oh, come, Kate, I can see that you did. With what result?’