‘I don’t know what to say,’ she says, aware that her optimism – her belief she can somehow make things better – is presumptuous. And yet she cannot think of this world slipping away. The farm is somewhere she has always imagined she could return: as permanent and unquestioningly present as her mother; or perhaps more so, for Fred’s death has taught her no parent should be taken for granted. Their family has been here for more than a hundred years – and the fact that her great-great-grandfather worked these fields moves and reassures her. This farm is part of her identity.
‘Oosey?’ Ava is looking at her now, stretching plump hands towards her.
‘Can I?’ she asks her brother.
‘Of course.’
He releases his grip, and his daughter springs into her arms and burrows into her: as wriggly and forceful as a puppy but with a sweeter scent.
‘We’ll try to find a way to stay here, Ava,’ she whispers into hair that smells of baby shampoo with just a slick of sweat. Then: ‘We will stay here.’ But she hasn’t the slightest idea how they will manage it.
Six
Then: 20 July 1940, Cornwall
It came out of a clear blue sky. One moment, Will was watching the Heinkel sneak up the estuary and roar over the small fishing town of Padstow, the next it was aiming straight at him; a fourteen-year-old boy, just minding his own business, cycling back to the farm.
He had stopped to watch: not fearful, for this was exciting, wasn’t it, a real German bomber? And, all of a sudden, he was crouching down; heart in mouth, as it veered over the houses towards Prideaux Place and the deer park. The sound scorched the air and he could see the swastika on its tail, and the pilot, through the fishbowl nose of his aircraft. He’s looking me in the eye, he thought. And his first instinct – after flinging himself against a wall, for he wasn’t brave enough just to stand there, despite whatever he might claim afterwards – was to think of what he would tell Maggie. Then came the bombs that blasted a doe, cratered the grass, disturbed the view – a sweep of a lawn running to the sea that had remained the same for centuries. The Heinkel veered off along the coast; the drone rumbling, then growing gradually fainter. The Elizabethan manor stood, undamaged, save for the tinkle of falling glass.
Will crouched there, heart thudding, blood whooshing through his head, before straightening, giddy. A plume of black smoke rose from the craters, smudging the sky. This was more like it! The Battle of Britain had started: Spitfires were charging off from RAF St Eval, just along the coast, and German raiders had been targeting the base, dropping three bombs and machine-gunning it last week, but this was the closest Will had been to a German bomber. Eye to eye, they’d been: man to man. That’s what he would tell Maggie. War – the thing he’d been evacuated from, that Cornwall was supposed to be keeping him safe from – had arrived with all the swagger and disregard of a Luftwaffe pilot.
He found his bike and started back up the lane. A mile and a half to home, it was: he’d be there in no time, powered by this news he had to tell. Eye to eye, he’d been: man to man. He could see the evil in the Hun’s face: his determination to kill him. ‘So why didn’t he then?’ he imagined Maggie asking, her mouth curving into a smile: not dismissive or mean, just teasing him, as she often did. Well, I scared him off, he would say. Even as he practised saying it, he knew that answer wouldn’t wash. Maggie was no fool. Six months older than him, and at the county school – the one you had to be clever to get into, not the elementary one he went to and was due to leave, to work on the farm, this summer. Aunt Evelyn wanted her to be a teacher. In an argument, Maggie usually won.
His legs powered round. Strong and tanned beneath his grey flannel shorts; a bit of a contrast to the mimsy white legs he’d had nine months ago when he and his three sisters had arrived down here – the twins billeted to a house in Wadebridge; Alice and he sent to the farm.
Nine months was long enough to know that he never wanted to leave. The smog of London, the cramped terrace where he and his baby brother Robert bunked up in one room, their sisters in the other, their parents downstairs; all this was a world away from the sea and the countryside, the animals, and the freedom he was experiencing here.
He wheeled down the hill, legs flexed straight, standing high off the seat, bombing towards the farmhouse. He thought his lungs might burst, though he was fit; used to cycling back and forth to school. He could swim too; had been practising since May so that Maggie didn’t rib him – though the chill of the water still took his breath away.
The barley fields parted to reveal the farm, and he grinned, as he always did, every single time he saw it. Mad to think that this was his life now: Padstow, Trecothan, Skylark Farm. He missed his mum, still in London with Robert, and his dad, of course, but he still had one sister with him, and he had Maggie: his best friend, though he wouldn’t admit it. He couldn’t tell the lads that a girl, and a clever one at that, was worth hanging around with, but without her how would he have learned to swim or hunt for mussels or find the most secretive parts of the cliff? The ledges you had to scramble up to, testing your weight against the slate; trusting that it would hold, until you had reached the hollows and crevices where you could hide and watch the wheeling seabirds, marvel at the crashing of the waves?
He screeched to a halt. Less than six minutes from the deer park to the farm. Not bad. Wait till he found the girls and told them. They’d have seen the bombs dropping, perhaps been worried? He started running: he hadn’t thought of that. At fourteen, he thought he was invincible. One of the lucky ones, not sent back home at Christmas when the war didn’t appear to start, for his mum had shown no signs of wanting that. Too young to be fighting – and, if he carried on working on the farm, exempt from ever having to do so, it seemed.
‘Guess what?’ His voice rang ahead of him as he ran through the cobbled farmyard into the garden, to the side of the house, behind the farm cottages. Maggie and Alice were perched at the wrought-iron table, laughing and shelling broad beans. Behind them, leaning against the tamarisk tree that marked the end of the garden and the beginning of the fields, was Edward, Maggie’s second cousin: slim, sixteen, a bit ginger. Will barely glanced at him.
‘What?’ said Maggie, and she wrinkled her nose and squinted at him.
‘I saw the bomber! I was right there. He dived low and almost got me. He stared me in the eyes and everything.’
‘Down in Padstow? Oh Will!’ Alice, just nine, was gratifyingly impressed. ‘He could have got you, Will! You could have been bombed – or gunned at.’
‘Nah.’ He felt embarrassed now; didn’t want his little sister to be scared.
‘How low was it?’ Maggie was interested.
‘Well, I could see the swastika – and his face!’
‘You couldn’t have seen his face.’ Edward peeled himself away from the tree, and came towards him. ‘Not really. Bombers can’t come that close – not unless they’re going to crash, and we saw it roar off again.’
Will felt himself deflate.
‘I did see him. I did. Honest. It was a Heinkel – with the windows wrapped around the nose? – so I could see him clearly. He had piercing blue eyes that went straight through me. It was if he was gloating; he just knew I was there.’
‘Then why didn’t he bomb you or machine-gun you down?’
‘I dunno.’ Will felt as if he was being cross-examined. Edward wanted to be a lawyer, though his dad was a farmer like Uncle Joe. He liked making points, quoting poetry, having debates. Anything that made clear he was planning to go to university. Maggie admired him. Will thought him a bit of a prig.
‘Perhaps it wasn’t as close as it felt, Will.’ Maggie smiled at him, trying to make it better. Her hazel eyes crinkled and she pushed her thick curls behind her ears, as she did when she was embarrassed or wanted to get on with things.
‘Why don’t you believe me?’ He was bemused. ‘It was that close’ – he held his hands a yard apart, a possible exaggeration. ‘Well three or four yards at least.’ He
gestured to the tamarisk. ‘As close as I am to that tree.’
‘Not sure you’d have been able to see his eyes if he was that far,’ Edward said, and he smiled; a patronising sort of smile as if to say, sorry old chap, you’ve got that wrong.
‘Are you calling me a liar?’
Will had had enough. The most exciting thing that had ever happened to him was being challenged by someone who loafed around in a cricket jumper reading poetry. ‘Say that again and I’ll deck you,’ he said.
Behind him, the girls seemed stunned. Then he heard Alice whimper. Will wasn’t sure where the words had come from; this wasn’t the usual sort of thing he said. He’d never challenged anyone to a fight before, but adrenalin was coursing through him and he couldn’t bear to be disbelieved. Above them a skylark chirruped: a joyful, relentless call that spiralled on and on, telling him not to be stupid, to forget about it; utterly oblivious to the tension beneath.
‘I don’t want to fight, Will,’ said Edward, and the look he gave him was one of faint amusement. ‘If you think he looked you in the eye, then I don’t doubt you. I just wondered why he didn’t machine-gun you down if he saw you, as you said?’
‘Perhaps he had a conscience.’
‘Well, yes, that’s possible.’ Edward walked back to the tamarisk as if mulling over this point. ‘Perhaps the Hun doesn’t kill when he comes face to face with the enemy?’
He gave Will a mock-apologetic smile, and, at that moment, Will absolutely hated him.
‘You still don’t believe me!’ His voice rose like a child’s and he felt, all too clearly, fourteen to Edward’s sixteen.
‘Well, I think you might have exaggerated.’ Edward gave a small shrug and held up his palms; a simple gesture that said he was sorry but Will’s story just didn’t make sense.
‘Right. You’re having it.’
He marched towards the older boy, who stood a head taller than him. Edward raised an eyebrow. Even at that point, he would have backed down had Edward said let’s talk about something else. But no: the other boy just smiled at him.
Will charged, barrelling towards his stomach, and knocked them both sideways.
‘Steady on.’ Edward’s voice came as a gasp. Will flailed at him, his right fist connecting with Edward’s left arm, then the left with his stomach. Edward shot Maggie a look of alarm, then, arms up, backed away.
‘Will!’ Maggie rushed at them and tried to pull him back.
‘Get off.’ He shrugged off her hands, for he didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, really. He glanced back, trying to convey this, to make clear that he wasn’t angry with her, but she stared back, eyes wide with disappointment. Alice, tearful, had run away.
Ooof! So Edward had decided to fight back. The shove, to his chest, took Will by surprise. The older boy grabbed his arms, wrestling him away rather than punching, for Edward wouldn’t want to inflict real harm. It wasn’t cricket. And Edward would want to play fair.
He was stronger than he looked, though. Surprised, Will found himself pushed back, then knocked to the ground, his nose thrust into crushed camomile and rabbit droppings. Then Edward was upon him. He kicked out, in a fury, getting Edward in the shin.
‘Aargh!’ The older boy’s pain came out in a breath. ‘That hurt.’
‘It was meant to.’ He tried to wrestle him over and away from him. For a minute they grappled, and then Will had him. He clambered on top as Edward thrust against him in a mindless flurry of arms and legs and fists.
Will’s shoulder hurt from where he’d been flung, and his shins were buggered. He suddenly felt immensely weary, for this wasn’t about not being believed. This was about being the incomer. The boy who was welcomed on the farm but who wasn’t entitled to be here.
‘Get off me,’ his opponent snarled, for his nose was bloodied now. ‘For God’s sake, stop.’
Will clambered off, staring at the blood that was dripping onto the cream of Edward’s jumper, shaken by the effect of his strength.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean …’
‘You were like a savage.’ Edward’s light blue eyes had narrowed into slits.
Will’s head fizzed, and he wanted to lunge at him again, but a sharp voice, incensed and increasing in volume, pulled him up short.
‘What on earth do you think you are doing?’
Aunt Evelyn, Maggie’s mother, was running into the yard with the maid, Joanna. Her eyes bored into him: two black beetles. Her mouth twisted in a hiss.
‘Well?’
They were silent.
‘I’m s-sorry,’ Will eventually managed. His intermittent stutter – gone these past six months – re-emerging.
‘It was just a scrap, Aunt Evelyn. Emotions running high. Will has apologised,’ Edward said.
‘That’s very good of you, but you’re bleeding.’ Aunt Evelyn’s eyes hardened. ‘William, I will not tolerate such behaviour. You are a guest in our house and I will not hesitate to ring the billeting officer and get you rehoused if this happens again.’
‘S-sorry,’ he said.
‘Your uncle will deal with this. In the meantime, shouldn’t you be helping with the milking?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, get to it.’
‘Th-thank you.’ He glanced at Evelyn. Her lips, pulled thin, were unsmiling, her forehead furrowed into a crease.
She nodded, curtly, preoccupied with the blood blotching Edward. And, before she could change her mind, he slipped away.
Later, much later, he ran from the farm, down the track, and out along the coast path. Past the concrete pillbox; up towards the headland; out towards the sea. He flew past the cove, where the water lay petrol-blue and deep, and beyond the old fisherman’s hut. It was early evening, but the paths were empty. The perfect time to disappear.
The tendrils of goosegrass grew thicker, and the brambles scratched as he pushed past them. His legs were coated with spittle and juices, branded with nettles, itchy and red. He needed to be alone, to brood on Uncle Joe’s words – he was ‘disappointed’, the farmer said, and that disappointment was worse than the thrashing he had feared – and to overcome his embarrassment and work out how he could face them again.
The ledge was a hiding place Maggie had shown him last September, soon after they’d arrived. They’d been blackberrying: picking the last choice berries, cramming them into their mouths and sucking the juices, heady and sweet. It had been a balmy day – and he had been stunned by the view and by the sea blurring into the horizon. ‘Look!’ She had grabbed him and turned him round. Far below, a couple of seals were sunning themselves, on rocks thrust high above the waves.
‘I’ll show you a better spot,’ she went on, and had led him to this ledge, halfway along the side of the cliff; found by leaning in, and moving low; by trusting that the footholds would hold; that the wind wouldn’t pick up and unsteady them. They had scrambled up then hunkered down, shuffling on their stomachs to spy on the world from under a canopy of seagrass and thrift.
‘No one knows about this,’ she had said.
‘Well I do,’ he had smiled.
‘Yes,’ she had said. ‘You do, now. It could be our secret place. Just you and me.’
He hadn’t been here since the start of June, but it was the place he came to when he needed to think things through. He hadn’t expected her to follow, but it came as little surprise when he spotted her an hour later. She wriggled in beside him, tanned legs flexing beneath her shorts, more like a younger boy than a girl; still flat-chested, as far as he could see.
‘You can’t go hitting people, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘I didn’t like it – and it wasn’t fair on Edward.’
‘He made me feel stupid.’
‘He didn’t mean to. He was just puzzling it out. That’s just his way.’
Will was quiet. Beyond them, the sky was changing: lilac spreading into the blue with just a hint of copper. The tide now coated the sand, inchin
g its way in. He fiddled with a stalk of seagrass, bending it into a loop then knotting it into a bracelet. Anything to avoid her seeing that he was close to crying. She was peering at him intently and reached out a hand to touch his lightly.
‘We’d better go back,’ she said. ‘Mother will worry.’
‘I can’t go back.’
‘Oh don’t be ridiculous.’ For a moment she sounded just like Aunt Evelyn. Then she smiled and a dimple stabbed her cheek.
How to explain that he was terrified of being sent from the farm; that, though he knew Uncle Joe liked him, he sensed that Evelyn was the stronger of the two; the one who would get her own way if she was determined. She was the one he needed to be wary of, to make it up to. The person he needed to impress.
‘What if she hates me?’
‘She doesn’t hate you. She just doesn’t want you fighting. All you need to do is apologise to her – be really really sorry – and make sure you never do it again.’
He looked at her, wanting to believe it. Her face had flushed, and she traced a pattern in the grit with her fingers. He watched and realised that it was his initials: the comical W. C.
‘I don’t want you to go. It was lonely before you and Alice came. You don’t want to, do you?’ She looked up at him, suddenly.
‘No.’ His voice was hoarse, for he could think of nothing worse. ‘Of course I want to stay.’
‘Well come on, then,’ she said. ‘Time to go back.’ She slid out from the ledge and held a hand out to him as he clambered up. Her fingers were slim and warm, and her touch – quickly given, for he dropped her hand as soon as he was up – was comforting. Alice still hugged him, but affection wasn’t something he often received.
‘Race you back?’ she said, with a backward glance, and a smile that seemed to say that everything would be all right. And she was off: dark curls bouncing, slim shoulders weaving through the banks of gold and green.
He waited until she had disappeared from sight, in the dip of the cove, then started after her, aiming for the farm, perched on the opposite hill’s crest.
The Farm at the Edge of the World : A Novel (2016) Page 4