Hannah's War, page 14
He sounded broken, the misery in his voice brought tears to Hannah’s eyes. Everything had gone wrong; she wished the last ten days had never happened. Two good men had died in a horrible way and then a third had been murdered by the man she loved but never wanted to speak to again. The pain was worse than anything she’d experienced, worse than the aftermath of Mayhew’s dreadful attack.
*
‘Very well, return for your interview. If you’re gallivanting around the place shooting people and letting Hannah almost freeze to death then you should be on active duty if you want my opinion.’
He didn’t. ‘I’ll move to my billet on the base. Don’t worry, Mrs Stock, I’ll be flying in the next operation.’
He trudged to his room, it no longer seemed cosy and welcoming but a prison, the walls pressing in on him. Joan was right, the sooner he got back in the air the better for everyone. He flopped on his bed without removing his boots or outer clothes.
His life was in tatters, his best friends dead and his newfound love crushed by circumstances beyond both their control. He yawned; another few hours and he had to be up and waiting for the car coming to collect him.
The evening’s events drifted through his mind. He’d told the constable Hannah was his fiancée, he’d have to put that straight tomorrow night. One thing he was pleased about, he’d kept her involvement quiet. Hopefully Joan would forget about the haversack.
His eyes were damp as he rolled over and pulled the eiderdown across his legs. He’d met the girl of his dreams last week, had cartwheeled from love to hate and back again. One thing he was sure of, she hated him and he could never forgive her. But this didn’t stop him loving her, desiring her. God - how he hated this bloody war.
*
Hannah finished her second cup of tea and realised she wanted to spend a penny. She wasn’t going outside again tonight. Joan had gone down to make more tea and left the tray on the bedside table along with some ginger nuts.
She’d had to march around the room until her hands and feet were warm. She couldn’t believe Jack had shot Kurt. No, hands up, just straight in and bang—the German was dead
She slid under the blankets; her toes were on one hot water bottle another was on her tummy and a third at her back—blissfully warm. How had Jack had appeared so suddenly? Had he known last night? Was that why he’d changed towards her yesterday?
How had he pretended all day everything was all right when he was planning to murder an innocent man? She didn’t know him at all; he wasn’t the man she’d thought he was. Then she remembered his smiling eyes, the way his mouth quirked when he was teasing her, how he’d carried her back from the field cradling her against his damaged shoulder.
Why hadn’t the police come? She expected to be arrested. Had he told them she’d been hiding Kurt? A wave of nausea engulfed her. Her haversack—when they found it beside the body they would know one of them had been harbouring an enemy. It wasn’t Jack,so even someone as dim as PC Smith would work it out.
This was her last night of freedom. Tomorrow she’d be taken to prison No-one would care when she told them Kurt hadn’t shot Pete and Dave, that Kurt was an educated man no different from them. Germans were painted with the same brush; they were evil Nazis, they deserved to die and so did anyone who helped them.
She couldn’t sleep. Downstairs she raked the range, riddled it, and threw on a hod full of coal. This was shameful extravagance but she wasn’t going to spend her last night shivering. She lit two oil lamps and carried one into the larder to collect milk and the tin of cocoa. Her foot squelched on something soft and she almost dropped the lamp.
She expected to see cat mess stuck to her slipper. Instead there was a neat row of dead mice. Sooty purred around her legs waiting for praise. ‘Well done, clever cat. I can’t believe you’ve caught so many. Aunty Joan will be thrilled. I’ll let you into the shed in the morning to catch the rats.’
It would be dawn soon; she didn’t intend to be here when Jack arrived. He’d be down half an hour before the car came. An envelope addressed to him was placed prominently in the centre of the table leaning against the sugar bowl. Joan had given him a refund.
She’d wash her mug, damp down the range and go back to bed. The orange glow from the oil lamp filled the freezing scullery. As she was drying it her eyes drifted to the pegs by the door. Her fingers slackened and the mug smashed on the flagstones. The cat shot off hissing and spitting. Hanging next to her jacket was her missing haversack. Jack had brought it back. Could this mean she wouldn’t be arrested in the morning?
Chapter Fifteen
Jack shaved in cold water and nicked his cheek several times. Better that than meeting either Joan or Hannah whilst he waited for the kettle to boil. He glanced around the room, his kit bag was packed, he only had to strip the bed and he was ready to leave.
His boots needed polishing and his greatcoat was covered in mud but he could sort himself out in his rooms at the base. When more than one bloke was buried most of the squadron, including the ground crew, attended.
He would nip in to see Hugh first and get the stitches removed. Then he would persuade Wing Commander Stanton he was fit for duty. That’s if they’d found a replacement kite and crew for him.
The kitchen was warm, the range hardly needed filling. He had thirty minutes before the car arrived so he’d make himself tea and toast. Sadly he pocketed the envelope. This was a refund. Nothing could be plainer; he wouldn’t even be welcome for a drink at The White Hart
The cat ignored him but there was the occasional rumbling purr when he walked past. Amazing how the animal had adapted to domesticity, one would have thought he’d been living in the lap of luxury all his life. He took all four water buckets to the stand pipe and filled them. That was one job less for Hannah. Once his crockery was washed there was nothing left to do. He might as well wait outside.
Looking around for the last time his mouth tightened, this wasn’t how it should have been. He removed the photograph and lock of hair from his pocket—he’d no right to these anymore. A shiver of apprehension flickered down his spine. Was he jinxing himself by giving up his lucky charm?
He hefted his kit bag over his shoulder and marched out. He was suicidal already, God knows how he’d be after the funeral.
*
Hannah was dressed when he left. She pulled back the blackout and watched him toss his kit
bag into the miniscule back seat of the MG sports car that had come to collect him. She’d cried enough over him. He was gone - she had to get on with her life.
Confident she could go downstairs without further upset she crept through the empty pub. It wasn’t really empty, Joan was still here but without Jack it wouldn’t be the same.
Her eyes were gritty from lack of sleep. The pub wasn’t opening today out of respect so there was nothing to do in the bars. Betty and Ruby didn’t know about last night, she must cycle over and tell them. She didn’t want to be here today with time to brood. She’d go if Joan didn’t want her help with the laundry.
Sooty greeted her by leaping from the rocking chair into her arms, the candle went flying and the room was plunged into darkness. ‘Blasted cat! Look what you’ve done, it’s a good thing I wasn’t carrying a full pot.’
He crawled up her jumper and hung over her shoulder, his purring practically deafened her. As her eyes became accustomed to the dark she realised the range was made up. Little point trying to remove the cat, he just unsheathed his claws and hung on. He smelt fragrant enough but she didn’t like him so close to her face in case he still had fleas.
She removed the mantle from the oil lamp on the table and lit the wick. The envelope of money had gone but in its place was the folded paper with her lock of hair and the small, grainy photograph she’d given Jack. Her stomach lurched. He shouldn’t have given these back—they were his good luck charms.
She glanced at the clock - quarter past seven - the funeral wasn’t until eleven o’clock. If she left now she could reach the base before the cortege left and leave them at the guardhouse. ‘Get down, Sooty, I’ve got to run upstairs and write a letter.’
This time he allowed her to remove him and seemed content to remain in the kitchen. She was on her way back with her leather writing folder under her arm when she realised there was no rush, Jack wouldn’t need the lock of hair or photograph until he returned. It would be better not to risk seeing him face-to-face.
There was plenty of time to fill the copper and light the fire under it so everything was ready for when Joan came down. Her foot knocked against a bucket and an icy stream of water shot down her leg. She hadn’t expected them to be full; he must have gone out in the dark and done that before he left. If he hadn’t killed Kurt last night there might be a chance they could sort things out. He probably felt the same way about a traitor as she did about a killer. It didn’t seem possible
she could still love him after what he’d done, but she did.
By the time the copper was full the kettle was whistling. She drank her tea whilst writing a note telling Jack to keep the hair and photograph, to think of them as his personal rabbit’s foot. She thanked him for bringing back the haversack and wished him well in the future. This was hard to compose, her words were smudged and blotched when she’d finished.
‘Good morning, ducks, at least it’s not raining, that’s something. Aren’t you having any breakfast? I could do you a nice egg and fried bread.’
‘I couldn’t eat anything, thanks. I’ve filled up the copper and lit the fire; Jack fetched the water for you before he left. That was kind of him, wasn’t it?’
Joan sniffed. ‘Least he could do, but I’ll not say anything as it’ll upset you.’ The rattle of the letterbox at the end of the passageway interrupted their conversation. ‘I’ll get the letters, you dry your eyes and make yourself a bit of toast, there’s a good girl.’
She returned with an important looking white envelope addressed to Hannah. ‘There’s one for you, it’s got a Saffron Walden postmark.’
‘The bank manager said he’d confirm in writing that my account was going to be transferred to his branch. Can you put it on the mantelpiece, I’ll read it later.’
Joan suggested Hannah go out. ‘Go and see your friends, take your mind off things. I expect Mary will make you a cup of tea.’
For some reason she didn’t tell Joan she was going to the base as well as visiting Pond Farm. ‘I’ll be back before dark. Did you see all the mice Sooty killed for you?’
‘I did and I reckon in a day or two we can let him out and he’ll finish off the rats. I shouldn’t bother to set traps, ducks, much better to let my clever cat do it for us.’
The day was cold and damp with a biting east wind, typical November weather and it suited her mood. Someone had told her there was nothing between Essex and Siberia and that the wind came from the frozen steppes straight to them. No wonder it was perishing.
The base was in roughly the same direction as the farm so there wasn’t much of a detour. She was puffed by the time she’d pedalled up the hill and arrived at the main gate of the base. A flag hung at half-mast and the two men on guard duty looked suitably sombre.
She parked her bicycle and walked nervously to the gate. ‘Excuse me, Flt Lt Rhodes has been staying at the same digs as me, he forgot this when he left this morning. Please could you make sure he gets it when he gets back from the funeral? It’s very important.’
The younger of the two shouldered his rifle and greeted her with a friendly smile. ‘Give it to us, love, I’ll make sure he gets it.’
The envelope changed hands. ‘Did everyone get back safely last night?’
‘It weren’t an op, love, just training. Nothing to worry about.’
Relieved there’d been no further casualties she smiled and cycled away. Did this mean there would be a sortie tonight instead? Jack wasn’t well enough to fly. Dr Donnelly wouldn’t let him until his stitches were removed. She mustn’t worry about it; she had more pressing problems when she returned to the pub.
The police would want to talk to her; she didn’t know what to tell them that wouldn’t incriminate her. Why hadn’t she spoken to Jack before he left? They should have the same story. What had he told them about the haversack? Had they even noticed it? Maybe they wouldn’t speak to her separately; after all, to them Kurt was just one less German.
The ride to the farm cleared her head. She’d give Betty and Ruby an edited version of events. What on earth was she going to say? She was on the verge of turning round when a headscarf flew over the hedge. She recognized the scrap of orange cloth as Betty’s.
She dropped her cycle and chased the material eventually trapping it under her shoe. She shook off the worst of the mud, walked to the five barred gate and climbed up to stare across the field of cabbages. She waved the orange square above her head. The two crouched figures straightened and waved back.
A thoroughly miserable looking horse stood between the shafts of the cart. The old blanket thrown over his withers flapped in the wind. There was no point in shouting; her words would be whipped away. She gestured towards the farm and the girls gave her a thumbs up. The cart was almost full, they must have been working since dawn to have picked so many. Daphne would be in the milking parlour which was the best place to be even if it did mean getting up at dawn.
She arrived at the farmyard to find Mr Boothroyd stomping about looking his usual disgruntled self. He scowled at her. ‘I hope you ain’t come here to stop my girls working, don’t take to visitors on me farm. That’s what you are now, Daphne’s got your place, she moved her things in yesterday. You’ll have to find somewhere else to go when your arm’s better.’
‘I see. I don’t blame you, Mr Boothroyd. It will be several weeks before I can return, and I won’t be able to do heavy work. I’ll find somewhere else as soon as I’m better.’
He muttered and shambled across to the barn. She wasn’t welcome here—should she wait for the girls or go home? Whilst the old misery was in the barn she’d speak to Mrs B, she wouldn’t have heard what happened last night and even he would want to hear the news.
The farmhouse door opened as she approached. The kitchen windows faced the yard. ‘Come
along in, Hannah, don’t take any notice of him. You’re always welcome here; you come and see the girls any time you want.’
She left her shoes on the doormat and followed Mrs B. through the freezing house into the welcome warmth of the kitchen. ‘Betty and Ruby are on their way back, I expect they’ll unload the cart before they stop for a drink. I was going to go across to the cottage and make them a cup of tea but I can’t do that now I don’t live there.’
‘That Daphne’s a nice girl, not a patch on you mind, but she’s a hard worker and gets on with old Arthur. She’ll make them a cuppa but you can pop across before you leave and say hello.’ As she was talking she’d pushed a large marmalade cat from the armchair by the fire. ‘Sit here, then tell me how that cat has settled in.’
Hannah dropped her jacket over the back of the chair and sat down not sure how to start. ‘Actually, I came to tell you something rather dreadful.’ Mrs B. paused, the kettle poised over the tea pot. ‘Jack and I went out for a walk last night, I know it sounds silly, but Joan doesn’t like us … well you know what I mean.’ Her cheeks were scarlet, she was a rotten liar.
‘Bit chilly for courting, but I don’t blame you. It’s the funeral today, isn’t it? You never know what’s going to happen; you make the most of things whilst you’ve got the chance. Nobody will blame you; folks understand how you young people feel.’
‘Well, we ended up at the derelict cottages and were confronted by that German everyone’s been looking for. Jack had his revolver with him. It wasn’t me he wanted to be with. I was just an excuse for him to search for the pilot.’ Her throat clogged, she swallowed but couldn’t continue.
‘Here, Hannah love, drink your tea. Tell me when you’re feeling better.’
‘Oh, Mrs Boothroyd, Jack killed him. The poor German, he didn’t have a chance.’ She scrambled for a handkerchief in her jacket pocket so she could turn away and hide her shame at having to lie.
‘Well go to the foot of our stairs! Jack Rhodes shot him? I can hardly credit it. He seemed like such a nice, gentle young man. Just goes to show war changes folk.’ She sat down heavily in one of the wooden chairs and rubbed her eyes on her apron. ‘My Bert wasn’t always like this—when our boy was lost at Dunkirk it changed him. I sank into myself, let him bully me. But things are going to be different around here in future. I’m hoping Bert will move on too, but I’m not holding my breath.’ She took a swig of tea. ‘I daren’t antagonise him, he’s got handy with his fists lately.’
Hannah was shocked by this admission. Violence against anyone wasn’t right. ‘Don’t let him hit you, Mrs B. He’s no taller than you. Why not threaten him with a frying pan? A good bang on the head should stop his nonsense.’
Mrs Boothroyd laughed. ‘You might be right, my dear. I’ll try talking to him and if that doesn’t work it’s a frying pan. I expect you and Jack had words about it.’
‘He’s gone back to the base and I’m not seeing him again. I liked him too but now I can’t come back here I can look for something further away. Then he can still drink in his local, Joan will forgive him soon enough if I’m not there to remind her.’
‘I hope you don’t go too soon, you’ll be missed round here. Ah, that’s the cart. Give the girls three-quarters of an hour and then nip across whilst his nibs is in the barn.’
‘Are you sure you want me to stay so long? I don’t want to be in the way.’
‘I still want to hear about that cat, you picked the best of the bunch in my opinion. He was often around the back door mewing for scraps.’
The girls were suitably shocked when she gave them an edited version of what she’d told Mrs Boothroyd.
