The Clouded Land

by Mary Mackie

  I didn’t need it explaining to me. ‘Has anybody checked at Far Drove? If Tom’s got it into his head that he wants to shoot enemies, he might have headed for the farm. Mr Farcroft has guns.’

  ‘We thought of that,’ Grandmother croaked. ‘Someone went down to ask. He’s not been seen there. He could be anywhere, Kate! He may even have gone to try enlisting in Lynn. I’m sure they wouldn’t take him, but he gets contused. He may be wandering about, lost.’

  Having grabbed a quick cup of tea, I donned my leather helmet, goggles and coat, wrapped my thick scarf round my neck, and went back into the gale, intending to use the last hour or so of daylight to search the nearby lanes. The local defence forces and the Gloucestershire Yeomanry were patrolling on foot, but I with my motorbike could range further afield. Not that I had much hope of finding one poor lost soul and his dog in all that countryside, but I felt better doing something.

  As light waned on that bleak November day, my whole body ached from holding the bike steady against gusting wind and the bucking of a hard, ill-sprung seat. I seemed to have covered miles of rough back lanes fraught with potholes and mud, but with no sign of Tom or Jim. Soon the day would be gone. Already the eastern sky darkened towards night and twilight lurked along my way. I stopped to wipe mud from my lamps and make sure they were lit, and wished I hadn’t when my sore muscles protested at being asked to climb aboard my machine again.

  Approaching a bend where the lane ran through a copse, I saw a young lad run into the road ahead, waving his arms to stop me.

  ‘Tree down!’ he shouted as I let the engine slow to an idle. ‘They’re now clearing it. Won’t be long.’

  Up ahead, an old tree had been felled by the wind, to lie right across the lane. Two farmworkers, working with a single heavy horse, had sawn the tree in half and pulled the top of it aside. Now they were fastening chains to the bottom half, whose huge ball of roots lay still partly fastened in the great hole from which it had been torn by the gale.

  I could have turned back and reached Denes Hill by another route, but the prospect of even an extra couple of miles daunted me. I hauled myself off the bike, wheeled it to lean on a tree, and waited, pushing my filthy goggles up my brow as I stretched stiff limbs and watched the two men prepare to clear the obstruction. They worked efficiently, accomplishing their aim with a minimum of words.

  One of them called the boy to do something. As he ran off, the man raised a hand to me, calling, ‘Sorry! Won’t be long.’

  Answering words died in my throat as I recognized him, even through the twilight. That deep, resonant voice, allied with a rangy frame clad in corduroys and cap… My heart twisted in my breast. Philip was home again.

  In the failing light, he probably took me for a man, dressed as I was for bad weather, muffled to the nose with mud caking all but the area round my eyes. Common sense told me I should go before he penetrated my disguise. But I couldn’t move. I wanted the pleasure of feasting my eyes on him. Once the tree was moved I could put on my goggles and ride by, lifting a gauntlet in thanks. So long as I didn’t speak, he need never suspect even my gender.

  The chains were fixed. The boy leapt up on the horse’s huge back. The other man laid a hand to its halter and led it forward, taking up the strain, while Philip came, axe in hand, to chop at the roots that still clung. One by one they gave. Inch by inch the great trunk slewed round. And then, seeing the lane almost clear, Philip strolled over to me, taking off his cap to brush at his cropped hair. Thinner than I remembered. Older, more like Michael. But still himself, so achingly dear…

  ‘We thought we’d better clear it before the light went,’ he said. ‘It would have been a hazard after dark.’

  I knew I shouldn’t speak. But my silence made him look more closely at me and I saw him start, disbelieving his own sight as he looked me up and down before peering again into my face. ‘Kate?’

  ‘Hello, Philip.’

  ‘Good grief… It is you! What the devil—’

  ‘I’ve been looking for Tom.’

  ‘What?’ Then concern drew a comma between his brows. ‘Is he still missing? Someone came to the farm earlier, asking if we’d seen him.’ He glanced again at my clothes, and at my machine, as if he still doubted his senses. ‘How long have you been riding motorbikes?’

  ‘A few months. I’ve got a new job.’ We chatted as if we were no more than old acquaintances, while stormy undercurrents eddied between us.

  ‘Are you on leave?’ I asked.

  ‘Just a few days. We’ve all been trying to get home for a last spell. We’ll be off soon.’

  I knew what he meant, but, ‘Off?’

  ‘Overseas. I don’t know where. I don’t care, so long as we get into it at long last. I’m sick of unrolling barbed wire, and doing futile drills, and watching other men go up to have a pot at those arrogant bloody Zepps – sorry. I’m out of the habit of being in polite company.’

  ‘It’s the war,’ I said ruefully. ‘You… still want to fly, then?’

  ‘Give me half a chance! If not, I’ll settle for the trenches. Just so I’m not sitting idle while it’s all happening.’

  Since I couldn’t bear to think about that, I said, ‘How’s your father?’

  ‘Older,’ he replied. ‘Changed, like a lot of us. Aware of his own mortality. But physically he’s recovered well, I’m glad to say. It was good of you to go and see him. He told me… about us being related.’

  ‘Oh. Yes.’ Unable to bear his frank regard, I looked beyond him, to where the lane was now clear, the other man and the boy busy removing the chains from the tree.

  ‘I wish you’d told me,’ Philip said softly.

  Fighting the sting of tears, I shrugged. ‘I couldn’t. It took me a long time to accept it myself. You…’ I peered at his face, wishing I could see him more clearly. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Top hole. Fighting fit. Listen, Kate… I’m sorry about the things I said last time we met. At Denes Hill. You know.’

  I forced a smile, though my face felt stretched into it. ‘Forget it. It was a strange situation. We were both under a strain.’

  ‘Then… will you write to me, while I’m away? We could… just write. Couldn’t we? There’s no law against—’

  ‘It wouldn’t be a very good idea, Philip.’ How could I sound so collected when I was all in pieces inside?

  ‘Why not? You keep in touch with the rest of your family, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s not quite the same, is it?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You know why not! How can we ever…’ Surely he knew we could never be platonic uncle and niece, or even simple friends. ‘Besides, I don’t think Oliver would like it.’

  ‘Oliver?’

  ‘My husband.’ I saw the word hit him like a slap. ‘Didn’t your father tell you about that? I asked him to. Maybe he didn’t take it in.’

  ‘You mean… Oliver Wells? The lawyer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  When he spoke again his voice had changed, tinged with bitterness. ‘I thought it might be him in the end. Ever since I saw you dancing together at that ball. I thought then that you made a fine couple.’

  I could hardly see him for tears. ‘Don’t hate me for it, Philip. I needed someone, and since it couldn’t ever be you…’

  Approaching night turned his green eyes dark in a face all craggy with shadows. He said, ‘I hope he’ll be good to you,’ and held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Kate.’

  Pulling off my big driving glove, I laid my hand in his, feeling its cool roughness enfold me. That touch was my undoing. Ripples of despair rushed up my arm, flooding me, and before I could stop myself I grabbed his lapel and reached up to kiss his hard cheek, muttering, ‘Be safe. Wherever you go. Whatever you do…’

  As I tried to draw back, his arms swept round me, holding me breathlessly tight. ‘And you,’ he said gruffly, gazing down at me in the gloaming. ‘Will you keep in touch with Dad for me? He’s got no other family. If anything happens…�
�� We both knew what he meant – ‘If anything happens to me, he’ll need someone.’

  ‘Of course I will!’ I managed. ‘I shall want to know how you are, anyway. You could… send me messages, in your letters. If you wanted. And I’ll tell him all my news, so that…’

  He was close to me in the dusk, so close I could feel his breath on my face and see the way he was watching my mouth, making my lips tingle as they always did for him, aching for his kisses, knowing that if he wanted me I would lie down with him in the mud and let him—

  ‘Goodbye, Kate,’ he said, and let me go.

  I watched him return to his companions, watched them all start away. Philip led the horse, slowly walking it into darkness that, eventually, took him completely from sight. For a long time afterwards, my whole body and soul ached for the kiss he had not given me.

  * * *

  I remember nothing about the next fifteen minutes or so. I came to on the road to Lynn, not knowing where I was. Realizing I was instinctively heading home, I stopped the bike and sat trembling. I shouldn’t be going home, I should be on my way back to Denes Hill – Tom was still missing.

  The extra miles I had ridden had depleted my petrol supply. As I turned and headed back, the bike began to misfire. I nursed it as far as the Denes Hill drive, where it finally died on me, obliging me to push it the rest of the way. Too tired to bother going round to the yards, I propped it against a low wall and made for the steps which led to the side lobby where, to the surprise of all three of us, I interrupted Vicky in the throes of a passionate embrace with an officer in uniform.

  ‘Oh!’ she got out as they sprang apart. ‘Kate!’ She straightened her cap and apron self-consciously. ‘We didn’t hear you. Oh – Tom is safe, you’ll be glad to know. Cavan found him and brought him home. Oh – I don’t believe you’ve met, officially. Cavan Fielding – Kate Wells.’

  I had seen Captain Cavan Fielding from time to time; he had been among the Gloucesters who had been billeted, briefly, at Denes Hill. Vicky had, it seemed, met him even before that and taken to him at first sight.

  ‘I can’t imagine why you ever thought I’d fall for one of the Laceys,’ she said later. ‘They were both sweet, but—’

  But Tom was safe and Cavan’s finding him allowed him an entry into the family circle, where he was soon accepted as Vicky’s chap. So at Denes Hill all was well, for the time being, except for the continued absence of Emmet and Frank.

  I’m afraid I didn’t waste much thought on poor Tom, or his motives for running off the way he had. For me, a far worse anxiety had begun: Philip sailed from Liverpool later that month. It was some while before we learned where he had gone. The name of the place was Gallipoli.

  * * *

  When the Turkish campaign had opened the previous spring, few of us had heard of the Dardanelles. We thought of that theatre of war as a romantic desert sideshow, pennons flying above troops of mounted gallants, well-armed ANZACs against turbanned natives with knives. By the latter stages of 1915 we knew better: Gallipoli had become yet another entrenched campaign, where mud, flies, dysentery and fever slaughtered as many men as did enemy artillery. Though the full extent of the carnage was not revealed until later, what we knew was bad enough. And now Philip was there, too, pinned down on bleak, muddy hillsides under constant bombardment, with bitter winter rains and snows ahead. I scanned the news sheets for every detail, finding little comfort in what I gleaned.

  Once again, I practised deception. My freedom to travel the county gave me ample opportunity for calling at Far Drove Farm, but I made sure the family, and my husband, didn’t know.

  Mad Jack greeted me warily, both suspicious and curious, but he didn’t tell me to stay away. He fretted for Philip, and he was lonely; though he would never openly admit it, I fancied he welcomed my visits. Since Mrs Gaywood had stayed in Lenhoe with her daughter after the Zeppelin raid, the short-sighted Maisie Pike now ‘did’ for him. I let her believe that my visits were part of my Red Cross work. The farmer grumbled mightily about her, but I think he was grateful for her help.

  Philip wrote to his father regularly. He wasn’t allowed to mention place names, but he gave us ample hints even if he didn’t say much about conditions. Then, in mid-December, the letters stopped. Mad Jack and I agreed that this was no worse than other delays, that three or four would come at once. But the news out of Gallipoli was bad. The year turned. No letters came.

  I had been writing pieces for women’s magazines, telling of women’s experiences, how they coped with the changes in their lives, with food shortages, hard manual work, and being without their menfolk. Philip’s silence gave me new insight into how those women were feeling and the true nature of mortal fear came home to me – worse for a loved one than for oneself. I hardly knew how I should bear it. But one cannot live in constant terror; after a while, it retreats to a shadow in the background of one’s life, kept at bay by more immediate concerns. It has to be held back. If you don’t bury it deep inside, it can destroy you.

  I caught myself wanting desperately to talk about him. Once or twice I almost mentioned my visits to the farm to Oliver, just for the pleasure of saying Philip’s name aloud. But Oliver would have known at once where my heart lay: I had never been able to lie convincingly to him. Fortunately, the temptation arose infrequently. Business kept one or both of us absent from home on many evenings, and when we did meet we spoke only of trivia. When he turned to me at night, I welcomed the distraction, but it seemed to me that our marriage had become as much a convenience for him as it was for me. His desire for me had turned into the desire to father a child. But, despite his efforts, I remained unfruitful. Perhaps that was my fault – whenever my husband’s body blended hopefully with mine, I made mental love with Philip Farcroft.

  * * *

  Fire in the night. Darkness hanging. Screaming shells. Voices moaning. Cold, so cold. Sudden blinding pain and then – nothing. Unfeeling. Peace. Soundless. Floating. Drifting upward. Looking down on a world of hellish mud, broken trees, blood, bones, putrefaction. Death. This was death…

  No! As feeling rushed back, I found myself fighting with a monster that sat on me, stopping my breath. Weight pressing me down. A hand over my face. Let me go! Let me breathe!

  ‘For God’s sake!’

  Oliver’s voice came from oceans’ depths, calling me back. The world re-formed itself around me. Deepest darkness, the bed hot and disordered, the air in the room cold, around us the flat in Merchant’s Court lying silent with midnight… Oliver lay half across me, heavy on me as he held me down, one hand clamped over my mouth.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ he said again, and this time I heard the tremor in his voice. ‘Are you awake now? Whatever was it? You were screaming. I couldn’t wake you. Are you all right?’

  I squirmed under him and, as if realizing he had me pinned, he released my mouth and rolled away, getting off the bed. He struck a match. Its flare dispelled the hovering shadows even before he turned on the gas and set the mantle glowing, turning it low. Soft light spread, letting me see that all was normal in the room. Except that my throat was thick, my heart beating so fast I could hardly breathe. Dregs of terror still clung to my subconscious. Normal? No. The dream was gone, but its message remained. Death. Philip…

  ‘Was it a nightmare?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘I get them,’ I said, and sat up, hugging my knees. Sweat soaked my nightgown but I was cold as Hades. Death… ‘They haven’t been so close lately. At Denes Hill they were there all the time.’

  ‘They?’

  I looked at him, seeing a familiar stranger, nothing more. ‘Ghosts. Spirits. Whatever you like to call them.’

  ‘Spare me,’ Oliver sighed, and climbed back under the covers, wrapping himself well with his back turned to me. ‘I’ve a busy day tomorrow. Or should I say today? It’s three a.m., Kate. I need my sleep.’

  His breathing slowed to a steady rhythm while I sent my senses out into the void, trying to recapture whatever had brought that
dream. Please… Tell me clearly. It can’t be Philip. Don’t let it be Philip.

  Cold to the bone, I went into the main room, lit the gas fire and opened the shutters, then curled up in a chair and stared at the stars above the roofline of the court. Another cold, glittering night, much like the night, over a year ago, when the Zepps came. No sound at all from the river or the streets. Of my dream, only the terror remained. But something baneful had happened, somewhere, to someone I cared about. So many of them out there in danger… Philip, Frank, Mother, Emmet, Tom…

  As my mind drifted in his direction it seemed to sharpen and focus. Tom… Dear God, something to do with Tom! All alone now. All alone. Terrified. Bereft… No words can properly express the clear call that said Tom needed me.

  I dressed in the bathroom so as not to disturb Oliver, putting on my riding gear before letting myself quietly out of the flat. My motorbike lived in one of the stables off the court, beside Oliver’s car. Hoping my employers would excuse me for using fuel for a private trip to Denes Hill, I wheeled the bike out into streets slick with ice.

  A full moon accentuated the hoar frost that hung on every twig and leaf, every roof and gatepost. Town and villages lay silent, not a light showing, hardly a creature stirring, my bike and I the only movement, bearing our noise with us. Freezing air numbed every exposed inch of my face, but I hardly felt the discomfort. The need to answer the call drove me. Hurry, hurry! My senses ached with desolation, a drawn-out, insensate howling of a soul in pain… help me! I’m coming, Tom.

  Did he hear me? I couldn’t tell.

  Denes Hill hung dark and silent, painted black and silver upon its dark backdrop of moon-iced woods. I drove round to the yards, slewing to a stop on icy cobbles, letting the machine rest against a wall as I ran for the side door. And stopped, hairs on my nape tingling. Had I heard a shot? Yes! There it was again. Strangely muffled. From the garden. Somewhere…