The Clouded Land

by Mary Mackie

  But he silenced me with kisses, holding me ever closer. So long we had waited. Now we could never have enough. One night… Dear God, let it be more than that! Somehow, let there be a way.

  We stayed in the wood until the damp chill reminded us of passing time. Then slowly, reluctantly, we made our way towards the house, arms about each other, pausing every little while to hold each other close again.

  ‘Where will they send you?’ I asked. ‘Will you write to me? We could use a box number at the post office. You will let me know where you’re going to be? Do you think your father suspects you came after me? Philip, how shall we—’

  ‘Don’t talk about it.’ His voice sounded rough as he pulled me to him and kissed me with savage despair, driving his fingers into my hair. ‘I don’t care about the future. I’m sick of trying to do the right thing. I Jove you. And you love me. That’s all that matters. No yesterdays, no tomorrows. Not for us. Only here and now. One day at a time. I’ve watched too many good men die before they had a chance to live. That’s not for me. Some day, when this war is over, if we’re both spared, then we’ll think about the future. For now, just keep loving me. Hold on to that, as I will. You belong to me. You always will, whatever may come.’

  ‘I believe that, too,’ I answered unsteadily. ‘I’ve known it ever since we met. Nothing can part us. Not… not even death.’

  ‘Amen to that, sweetheart,’ he murmured. ‘But I don’t intend to die, if I can help it. I’ve got too much to live for.’

  * * *

  The following evening when I arrived home, a note from Judy Love asked me to meet her at the back gate at sunset, if not that evening then the next. As it happened, I was able to go that same day.

  Judy looked tired after another day stooking sheaves. They were trying to bring in the harvest before the weather broke. ‘I thought you’d want to have this as soon as poss,’ she said, handing me an envelope before collapsing on to a tree stump. ‘Phew, ’scuse me if I rest my legs, dear.’

  The envelope had a single ‘K’ scribbled on it, by Philip. Caressing it with my fingertips, I put it in my trouser pocket, to read later.

  Judy gazed down the short-cut track. ‘I only saw him for a minute, but… I gather you’re not related, after all. Pity you got yourselves into such a tangle. What’ll you do?’

  ‘When the right moment comes, I shall ask Oliver for a divorce.’

  ‘Divorce?!’ She goggled at me. ‘Lor’, dear, do you know what you’re saying? Let it all come out in court? And then what? Someone like me could brazen it out, maybe, in time. But, I mean, someone like you? No, dear, if I were you I’d keep my mouth shut. Let things ride.’

  ‘You mean… deceive Oliver?’

  ‘Well, he’s not exactly Galahad the Faithful, is he? Oh, I didn’t come to talk about your horrible husband. I want to know about Frank. Tell me about it, dear. Tell me everything.’

  I did so, while the gold of the sky turned to flame on duck-egg blue. Asking questions, Judy extracted every detail, disguising her feelings behind a show of levity. ‘So! Didn’t want to see me, eh? Thinks he can get rid of me. Not likely. Soon’s you know where he is, dear, you let me know. I’ll sort him out. Run off and hide, will he? Not if I have my way!’

  ‘I agree,’ I said. ‘He’s got to come home. We must make him see that.’

  She hesitated, watching me for a long moment, then: ‘He won’t be very happy if he finds your husband acting like lord of the manor. He always said he had a feeling Oliver intended to take over, by hook or by crook.’

  ‘Did he?’ What had Frank meant by that? ‘Judy, are you going to tell me what it is with you and Oliver? Is it just because Frank doesn’t like him? I know you’ve talked about it to Philip. You might as well tell me, too.’

  ‘I’d rather not, dear.’

  ‘The other night, he… he warned me you might try to make trouble for him. He said you had chased after him, and when he rejected you—’

  ‘He said what? Ruddy liar!’ She leapt to her feet, but stopped, groaning, as aching muscles protested, and eased herself upright, arching her back, moaning, ‘Lor’, I wasn’t meant to chuck sheaves about.’

  ‘Please, Judy… I think I have a right to know.’

  For a while longer she resisted, not looking at me, then she came to lean near me, her back against a tree as she studied her work-scarred hands and split nails. ‘Remember when we met after one of Mrs Bly’s sessions? You were with Oliver and dear old Win Leeming. And I was with Elsie – Elsie Pratt, you know? My friend? The redhead?’

  ‘Yes.’ I didn’t follow her drift.

  ‘Did you notice the way Oliver and Elsie clicked? No, I thought not. He gave her the once-over, and got the glad eye back. Next evening, he turns up at the stage door. Takes her out to supper. Doesn’t bring her back until after breakfast. That was the start of it.’

  Recalling that that had been the evening when I firmly rejected Oliver, I tried to be objective. ‘He was a single man then. He’s never hidden the fact that he’s… a man of the world.’

  ‘Of course, dear. That’ll be it.’

  ‘There’s more, isn’t there? Is he still seeing her?’

  Judy pushed her hands into her pockets, sighing, ‘I wish I could lie to you, dear, but… I don’t know how often, and he’s not the only one by a long chalk – Elsie’s pretty free with her favours. But last time I saw her, round last Easter time… she was with your Oliver. All dressed up, he was – top hat, cape with a blue lining, big cigar… And her clinging to his sleeve like butter. They weren’t going to spend the night watching for Zepps.

  ‘When I came here,’ she added, ‘he didn’t seem to connect me with Elsie. But one night… I’m sorry to say this, dear, but you may as well know it all – I saw him canoodling with one of the nurses. And he saw me. Waylaid me on my way home one evening. I was scared – I told him I knew about him and Elsie, and that made him really mad. He said if I said anything to you he’d wring my neck. Well! I don’t gossip, dear, not usually, and I didn’t want to upset you. Mind you, if I’d known before the event that you were going to marry him, I might have said something. But it all happened so quick…’ She leaned to lay a hand on my arm. ‘I’m sorry, dear, but you did ask. And you must have suspected, surely. You don’t really believe he spends all those nights away from home going to business meetings, do you?’

  ‘I’ve never given it much thought.’ Now, it all seemed so obvious. Why hadn’t I seen it before? Oliver’s appetites could never be satisfied by one woman. Oh, it had suited his vanity to marry me, for who I was, and he had no doubt enjoyed chasing, conquering and educating a green girl. But he had soon tired of that and gone back to other, more alluring outlets. To my surprise, I felt slightly affronted – betrayed – which was rich, considering my own recent behaviour. Forcing a laugh, I said, ‘Ironic, isn’t it? I’ve been feeling horribly guilty about Philip, and now…’

  ‘Well, you’re not the first, or the last,’ Judy said. ‘I mean, this war’s made people do all kinds of strange things. Marriage vows don’t mean much any more. It’s the modern way. Well… I’d better go, dear. Got another long day in the corn tomorrow. You be all right, will you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lied.

  Overhead, the sky had deepened to royal velvet. The stars came out, the moon’s sickle a touch wider than the previous night, when Philip had been here with me. One day at a time, he had said.

  Until we knew what the future held, perhaps it was best to be discreet, best not to tell Oliver anything. Since he didn’t really care, I couldn’t be hurting him by loving someone else. My hand rested against Philip’s letter, savouring the contact, knowing it told me of his love. Where was he tonight? Would he learn to fly in France, or in Kent? When would I see him again?

  Twenty-Six

  To my unbounded relief and joy, Philip was not sent to France – not at once, that is. After winning his wings at Farnborough, he came back to Norfolk, to Sedgeford, only two miles from home
, to spend a month learning the skills of aerial battle and reconnaissance. A month… an unexpected gift which we both grasped with eager hands. Being billeted at Sedgeford with the other trainees, he could say he was walking over to see his father in the evening, or I could stop off somewhere on my way to or from my various assignments, or go out after dark if Oliver was away. We let ourselves imagine we were back in that lovely summer before it all went wrong, except that this time we were in total harmony. Was it sinful? We didn’t even think about it. One brief month was ours.

  Frank wrote that he was staying at the Mayfair flat and ‘getting myself together’. I could tell the family he was safe, but not where he was, not yet – he didn’t fancy having his mother rush down to London to treat him like an invalid. I wrote to Grandmother to set her mind at rest about him. She replied that that had made up her mind for her – she would be home very soon, to prepare for Frank’s return.

  ‘She must be so relieved,’ I remarked to Oliver. ‘At least one of her sons has been spared.’

  ‘Did he give any hint as to where he has been these eighteen months?’

  ‘Perhaps we shall soon find out,’ I replied. ‘It will be good to have him home, won’t it?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, my dear,’ he answered, his face unreadable. ‘But the war isn’t over yet, for any of us.’

  Why did I have the feeling that Oliver didn’t welcome the thought of Frank’s return?

  The oddness of my uncle’s odyssey in Germany had struck both Judy and me. Why had he gone to the eastern front? Surely not simply to see Mother, though that was what he had let me believe. How had he blended so easily with the Russians, living and working with them for months? I knew he spoke German, but did he also speak Russian?

  ‘You don’t think he’s a secret agent, do you?’ Judy asked, wide-eyed. ‘Lor’, dear… But, if he was, he’d never let on, would he?’

  No, he would not. Not ever. But I couldn’t help thinking of his strange comings and goings even before the war. Had they all been on account of his painting?

  His letter had asked me not to tell the family where he was, but he hadn’t repeated his instructions about not telling Judy. Which, I felt, might indicate that he would like to see her. So I told her he was in London, at the flat, and, after a day or two of indecision, she applied for a few days’ leave and a rail ticket.

  When I saw her off at Eveningham station, I guessed that her joking, brazen front covered a deal of insecurity.

  ‘D’you think I might get invited up to Denes Hill as a proper guest some day?’ she asked. ‘Even after the old girl gets back?’

  ‘If Frank invites you, he’ll make sure you’re made welcome.’

  ‘“If…”’ She pulled a face at me. ‘Will you be all right, dear?’

  ‘Of course! Do stop worrying about me, Judy. Think about yourself for once. Give Frank my love, won’t you? Good luck.’

  As I walked back up to the village, I noted that autumn had come. October coloured the trees and hedgerows in vivid shades of gold and red, and berries hung in thick clusters. ‘Going to be a hard winter,’ Mad Jack observed when I called at the farm. ‘Wholly hard. You’ll see. First that’ll froiz, then that’ll snew.’

  He was in an odd mood, worried about Philip, who must soon move on to the front line in France and who already talked familiarly about the perils of ‘Archie’ – the shellfire from anti-aircraft guns – and weather reporting, and wireless communication, and fighting Zepps, and flying reconnaissance missions. Philip was loving every minute. His father and I felt less sanguine. But I tried not to think about that. Today, Philip was still close to me. Tonight, I would see him. Tomorrow… No. No tomorrows. Only todays for us. Until the war ended.

  * * *

  Mad Jack’s prediction of hard weather ahead seemed to be coming true: for a few nights, frost turned the world silver. Oliver had gone to the engineering works in Lincoln – at least, he said he was going to Lincoln. All I cared was that his absence left me free to meet Philip without fear of discovery.

  As I was about to leave the house that evening, one of the nurses came with a message for me to telephone the Mayfair flat. I wondered what was wrong – had Oliver turned up there, not realizing Frank was in residence? Was Frank angry because Judy had arrived? I used the telephone in Grandmother’s study, asking the operator to connect me.

  ‘Kate!’ Frank’s voice came tinnily down the line. ‘Girl… I should be angry. I asked you not to tell anyone. But the fact is… Hey!’

  ‘The fact is,’ Judy’s merry tones took over, ‘he’s frightfully glad I’m here. What’s more, dear, he can’t understand how you ever got the idea you were related to Philip Farcroft.’ Frank said something in the background. ‘Well, you tell her, then,’ she answered.

  My uncle’s voice again: ‘Kate, dear girl… whatever made you think—’

  ‘You did, among others!’ I exclaimed. ‘I told you about it. You didn’t deny it.’

  ‘I didn’t realize you meant Michael Farcroft!’

  ‘Then what on earth did you think?’

  ‘I thought you’d got wind of the rumour about that young chap in Cumberland – Harry overheard the parents talking about that. Next thing we knew, Clara was married to old man Brand and having you. Oh, she did get into hot water for visiting the farm, but that was earlier – the year I went to Winchester. I remember it clearly: eighteen ninety-one. I’d be twelve, going on thirteen.

  ‘When I arrived home for the vacation, Clara was already gone off to stay with the aunts. There was an awful atmosphere in the house, Father pot-faced and Mother ill – she’d had the twins the previous January, and there was all that bother over poor Tom. The servants were whispering, the villagers looked askance. Harry and I knew it had something to do with the Farcrofts. We spent the summer playing spies, watching the farm, being chased off by the old troll. Kate… I blame myself. I’ve messed up your life. I only wish I’d stepped in before, but I had other things on my mind. I didn’t understand about Philip. I thought you’d ended it of your own choice.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself, Uncle Frank,’ I broke in. ‘You’ve told me all I needed to know.’

  All I needed to know was that he and Judy were happy, and that, some day, I might stand beside Philip and announce our love to the world with equal joy. I didn’t think any further than that.

  I remember that evening clearly, going to meet Philip by byways and back lanes, hiding my motorbike behind a hedge, walking the last half-mile. Our rendezvous was, ironically, a hay loft, above a barn on the edge of a wood. By the time I arrived, the full moon stared down on a world turned extra silver by frost. A flick of a torch told me Philip was waiting, and moments later his arms reached for me.

  As soon as I had breath to speak, the story spilled out of me: ‘I’ve spoken to Uncle Frank. Philip, he said…’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ he answered. ‘Katie, darling, I knew it. We couldn’t feel the way we do if it wasn’t meant to be.’

  We held each other, laughing and kissing as we fumbled, numb-fingered, at buttons and laces, shivering with both cold and anticipation, coming together in a fever of impatience. Where Oliver made love with cool control, Philip was all fire and passion, his eagerness for me better than any aphrodisiac. Soon we were both warm, lying together under a blanket in a nest of hay, replete and comfortable, while he told me about his day.

  He’d flown over Far Drove, practising taking pictures of the land beneath his wings. He’d seen his father rush out, first shaking his fist and then standing astounded when the pilot of the noisy machine waved and called to him. The memory made him laugh, the sound reverberating in the warm chest beneath my cheek. ‘I went over Denes Hill, too. They all came on to the terrace and waved. I didn’t see you, though.’

  ‘I’ve been in Lynn all day. The munitions workers are threatening to strike. Some of my girls are ill. TNT is dangerous stuff.’

  ‘We need it.’

  Knowing that we would never agree
on that subject, I burrowed close to him. ‘I’m so sick of all the killing. When is it going to end?’

  ‘When we’ve won, darling. We can’t stop until we’ve won. By the way… I got my orders today.’

  I held on to him, my heart suddenly thunderous. ‘When?’

  ‘The twenty-ninth. France.’

  France. The Somme. That great slaughter was still going on. I had seen the feature film they had made during its early months. Hideous images, the worse for being silent. ‘I see,’ was all I said, but every nerve in my body became aware of him, drinking in the way he felt against me, smooth warm flesh over taut muscle, scar tissue on his chest, slight roughness of body hair, memorizing every curve, every line, so that when he was far away I could lie alone and remember…

  ‘I’ll carry your charm with me everywhere,’ he said.

  ‘Charm?’

  ‘The little aeroplane you gave me, remember? I wear it behind my lapel. Where’s my jacket? Yes, here – feel it?’

  I had all but forgotten the silver aeroplane, the lapel pin I had bought for Carl-Heinz and then given to Philip, in the church that day. So very long ago. What children we had been.

  ‘It’s kept me safe so far,’ Philip said. ‘No reason it shouldn’t continue to do so. Please don’t worry, sweetheart. I don’t. All that ever worried me was losing you.’

  I clung to him, letting my nails dig into him until he protested. I wanted to hurt him, because he sounded so complacent. He didn’t have to worry about losing me. But I worried desperately about losing him. It was right what women said – being left behind, to live every moment in uncertainty and fear, sometimes felt like the worst of the bargain.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ I decided. ‘Yes, I will. I’ll be a driver – I’m a good driver. Or a dispatch rider. I will, Philip. I can’t let you go alone. If I could just be somewhere near you—’