There was a new word; a word to add to blitz and gone for a burton and civvy and conchie and prang. Baedeker. One more for the vocabulary of wartime slang: the German word for reprisal.
‘Another Baedeker raid. It was on the lunchtime news. Did you hear it, Kath?’
‘No. I ate my sandwiches outside. Reprisal for what? They’ve already had a go at Exeter and Bath and Norwich. Now York. Why?’
‘Because they’re all precious old places; mediaeval, or with beautiful architecture. It’s senseless. Seems it’s because of that thousand-bomber raid of ours on Cologne.’
‘Did Paul’s family have any bomb damage?’
‘No. He lives in a little place outside Bath.’ Roz pushed wide the gate. ‘Wouldn’t you know it? Those stupid things always take themselves off to the bottom end of the field just before milking. I swear they can tell the time. We’d better hurry them up. No use calling them.’ They set off for the far corner of the pasture where the herd cropped steadily at the grass, swinging irritated tails at flies. ‘It was as if that raid had never happened when I got back to Alderby this morning.’
‘Bad, was it?’ Kath sensed her need to talk.
‘Awful. It was a lovely afternoon when I met Paul. The station was a happy place then, yet next morning it was bombed and blazing and people still buried under the rubble. It was like a warning not to get too smug.’
‘I know, love. Air-raids we can all do without. But try not to think about it. You and Paul were lucky.’
‘I suppose we were. Seems neither of us could have ghosted through the graveyard last Friday night.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! You’re not still on about that St Mark’s Eve thing?’
‘Not really. Just a bit edgy. I need to see Paul. It seemed wrong this morning, not kissing him. He just said, “See you” and walked off with the Waafs, as if we didn’t know each other. I wish it didn’t have to be that way.’
‘It needn’t be. I still think you should tell your gran. She’d understand. I know she would.’
‘And I know she wouldn’t. Oh, don’t let’s talk about it. Let’s get this lot seen to. The sooner milking’s over, the sooner I can go home. And listen! There it is – a cuckoo at last! Turn your money. Make a wish.’
‘You turn your money. I heard my cuckoo yesterday, after you’d gone. Only had a few coppers in my pocket, though. Does it matter?’
‘Matter? Yesterday was the twenty-eighth, you jammy beggar. That’s the lucky day for hearing your first cuckoo. Hope you wished for something really good, Kath.’
‘No. I just turned my money over, and left it at that.’
She’d heard that first cuckoo loud and clear as she walked across the stackyard to the poultry arks in the two-acre field and had gasped with pleasure and jingled the pennies in her pocket. But she hadn’t wished. She hadn’t dared. When you want something you know is wrong, you don’t push your luck. So she had shaken that almost-wish from her mind and counted the cuckoo calls instead. One for every year of life still to come, hadn’t Roz said? And it had called and called. It was still calling when she got to the poultry field and Marco had beckoned her over to the hazel hedge to show her a blackbird’s nest with five blue eggs in it.
That cuckoo had gone on calling till she thought she must surely live for ever. But it was only superstition. She was getting as bad as Roz and Polly. Even if she had made that wish, nothing could have come of it.
‘I was talking to Arnie the other day. He said he’s seen fox cubs playing on the outcrop on Tuckets Hill. Come on, you stupid creature!’ Roz slapped the rump of the old lead-cow. ‘I thought I might take Paul up there to see them tonight. Why didn’t you make a wish?’
‘I thought we were talking about fox cubs.’ Butterfly-minded; that’s what Roz was. Flitted from one thing to the next like the pretty, fey creature she was. ‘And I don’t know why I didn’t wish.’
‘Well, you should have. And where’s Marco this afternoon?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’ Not all that long ago she’d wondered exactly the same thing. ‘Last time I saw him he was talking to Mat. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason. Just that he ought to be giving a hand with the milking, that’s all.’
‘My, but you are in a hurry to be off home.’
‘Yes, I am. I could do with a bath and, as I said, I need to see Paul.’ Get as far from Home Farm as she could; away from Jonty so that she need neither speak to him nor look at him. Not after what he’d said this morning. ‘So tell me why you wasted such a lucky wish, though I bet you had a sly one and you’re not letting on. You went as red as a beetroot when I mentioned it. Tell me. Your secrets are safe with me.’
‘Secrets? What on earth do you mean?’ The reply came too quickly.
‘There you are! You’re doing it again. You’re blushing!’
‘All right – so I’m blushing. And it isn’t funny, Roz, so you can wipe that silly smirk off your face right now!’
‘Sorry, love. Just teasing. Forget it.’
‘All right. And you forget it, too – okay?’
Just teasing, Kath brooded, tight-lipped. She hadn’t been blushing though she should have been, just to think of the things that kept coming into her head lately. And it was as well she hadn’t made that cuckoo-wish, because if she had and if it had come true, she’d surely have regretted it.
It was just that all at once she felt lonely and alone. Lately there’d been this awful thing that wouldn’t go away; a longing, almost, to be near to someone. Not to have an affair, but just sometimes to have someone to care for her. Not to be in love like Roz; not wildly and dangerously, without thought for tomorrow, but to have a gentle loving – a cherishing, maybe, to help take the edge off her aloneness.
All right – so there was Barney. But Barney was miles away and his letters – when they came – gave her no comfort at all. They made her feel worse, in fact – rebellious, almost, and she had longed to wish for someone to share things with. Even though she had Barney, she was still alone, had been all her life, come to think of it. Marrying Barney hadn’t changed a thing.
They walked in silence, back to the milking parlour, neither speaking until they drew near to the farmhouse. Then Roz pointed to Marco, busy outside the kitchen door.
‘Look! That’s where he is. He’s mending your puncture.’
‘It – it’s good of him.’ Marco mending her puncture? She dropped her eyes as he looked up and waved, forcing her thoughts to the bicycle she had left behind in Birmingham. Tin Lizzie. Old and black-painted, the first thing she had ever owned. And she remembered the cheeky young lorry driver who had mended another puncture in another life; another faraway life she seemed not to want to remember. ‘By the way – I forgot to tell you, Roz. There was a letter for me when I got back to the hostel last night.’
‘Good. Been a long time since you heard, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes. More than three weeks. Said he’d been away on a long convoy, whatever that is, but he didn’t say where. But I suppose he couldn’t, though, because of the Censor.’
‘Suppose not,’ Roz offered uneasily, wondering why, suddenly, Kath looked as if she were about to burst into tears. But it was turning out to be that kind of day, wasn’t it, with everyone snappy and tired because of last night.
Paul, I miss you. And I want you so much. Be there, tonight; please be there.
Polly walked purposefully to Alderby and the bay-windowed house set back off the Green, six newly-laundered shirts in her basket. This was Wednesday and not even last night could be allowed to interfere with delivery day.
My, but they’d sounded near, those bombs. It was as the Manchester lady had remarked in one of her rare moments of communication: one small error from the one who let the bombs go: one second earlier or later and they could have landed slap bang on Alderby.
The postman had been late this morning, partly because of York sorting office being inconvenienced by it all and partly because every isolated farmhouse and cottage had expected him to tell them all about it. But he’d brought no pink-enveloped letters, and for that she was grateful.
It had been terrible, though, to hear about the railway station and the carriage works – and as for those poor nuns! But the bombs had missed the Minster, thanks be, though that must surely be what the Luftwaffe had come for. Doing no harm to a soul that old place wasn’t; stood there for hundreds of years and the pride of the three Ridings. But those Nazis had no respect for history and tradition. Be just like them to come back tonight, Polly brooded, and have another try at getting it.
Indignantly she opened the gate and took the path to the back door. Then straightening her shoulders, she lifted the knocker.
‘Ah, Miss Appleby. Terrible last night, wasn’t it just?’ Mrs Murgatroyd handed over two half-crowns. ‘Would you have a moment to step inside? The kettle’s just on the boil – thought you’d be here before very much longer. Sit down, my dear, do.’ She laid the shirts on the dresser with care, indicating a chair with a nod of her head. Having already exhausted the subject of the air-raid, she was eager to talk of other things. Clearing her throat delicately, she murmured, ‘The business about which we spoke, Miss Appleby …’
‘Ah, yes.’ The legal advice. Mr Murgatroyd’s considered opinion on Arnie’s mother and her goings on.
‘My husband has come to the conclusion that most things considered, you have a good case for keeping the lad. There’s a but, though, and a big one. Proof, Mr Murgatroyd says.
‘Now the good God gave us ladies one thing he chose not to give to men. He gave us instinct and we know, don’t we, what Arnold’s mother is up to. But the law demands proof and that, sadly, we do not have.’
‘We do not,’ Polly echoed mournfully.
‘But the welfare of a young boy is most important and there is one way left open to us. Bluff, Miss Appleby, a little bluff and deception. It just might work, though you’ll have to be mightily careful how you go about it.’
She paused for the effect of her words to be fully considered, pouring the tea carefully into her second-best china cups. Then, pushing the sugar bowl across the table as if rationing had ceased to exist, she looked to left and right and murmured, ‘Mr Murgatroyd is of the opinion that you should write to Hull without delay. Make it a brief but friendly letter telling Arnold’s mother that he is well and that she’ll be welcome to visit him whenever she has the mind to – though a postcard first would be appreciated.
‘Then if your suspicions are correct – that for some reason she wants the boy back – you can be sure that before many weeks have passed she’ll be paying you a call. That will be the time when bluff and deception might prove to be the saving of young Arnold. Not that Mr Murgatroyd agrees with deceit and deception – in his position he can’t, you know. Ah, no. This is something I have worked out for myself. When you have heard what I have to say, then I’m sure – given luck – that you’ll have nothing more to fear in that direction. Tea all right for you, my dear? Well then.’ She looked round again, then, leaning across the table, lowering her voice and raising her eyebrows, she whispered, And this is what I think you must do …’
Arnie was waiting at the back gate when Polly puffed up Ridings’ carriage drive. Rarely was she out when school was over, but today she had stayed overlong at the bay-windowed house though, goodness, it had been worth it. It only went to show that it wasn’t what a body knew, but who. Now her eyes gleamed with the spirit of conflict, and if that one from Hull tried any of her tricks, Polly Appleby would be ready and waiting for her.
‘Now then, lovey. Been waiting long, have you? Got kept at Mrs Murgatroyd’s, see. You should have got the key from the shed.’
‘Didn’t want to. I’ve been watching things.’
‘Oh?’
‘When will it be summer, Aunty Poll?’
‘Not till the swallows come, and the old cuckoo gets here.’
‘Then it is summer. I’ve heard a cuckoo and I’ve seen a swallow, so can I go into my short socks now?’
‘One swallow, was it?’
‘Yes, but it was a swallow.’
‘Ah, then maybe you’ll have to wait a while yet,’ cause it’s a well-known saying around these parts that one swallow don’t make a summer, Arnie. You’ll have to wait till you’ve seen one or two more. That one little bird on his own might have been sent on ahead to see how the land lies. Can’t rely on one. One doesn’t count. Now out you go for five minutes while I make us a pot of tea.’ She deserved a sup of tea after all the conspiring and plotting that had gone on. ‘Supper won’t be long.’
‘I’m starving. What are we having?’
‘Egg salad and baked apples. Now shift yourself out of my way while I get the kettle on. And while you’re about it, fetch a few logs from the back, there’s a good lad.’ The day had been warm. Arnie might be forgiven for thinking that summer had come, but tonight could be sharp with cold as could all April evenings and a nice wood fire would be pleasant to sit over; to sit over, and think.
Arnie filled the log basket and set it at the back door, then leaning chin on hand at the gate he gazed into the sky. One or two more swallows, that’s all it needed, and summer would really be here. Then he could do without his long, scratchy stockings, take off his pullover and paddle in the beck, go bird-nesting and look for tadpoles; all the lovely summer things that made being at Aunty Poll’s so smashing.
Anxiously, he scanned the sky.
‘I think,’ Roz murmured, sitting hands round knees, ‘that we aren’t going to see the cubs tonight. The vixen must’ve got scent of us and holed them up somewhere.’
‘There’ll be other nights. Want one?’ He offered his cigarette packet.
‘Please, love. Light it for me?’
It was quiet and deserted on Tuckets Hill and from here they could see over to Peddlesbury and Alderby and, to the left, chimneys showing over the treetops, the house she lived in.
‘Foxes are vermin, aren’t they?’ He placed the cigarette between her lips.
‘Most farmers think so, but fox cubs are pretty little creatures even baby pigs are nice – all pink and squeaky. Isn’t it peaceful here? Can you believe that last night happened when there’s all this?’ She waved an expansive arm. ‘Can you?’
This beauty that was April. The freshness, the newness of everything. April was winter gone, green things growing and the promise of warm, sunny days. April was drifts of blossom, pale, delicate leaves, cuckoos and butterflies. It was young, as she and Paul were young. These were their green years and their love was April love.
‘I’d like to make a picture of all this,’ she said softly, ‘to store inside me so I’d have it always.’
‘And last night, too? The raid?’
‘That as well, I suppose, because of us being together, though it’s this time and this place I’d want most to remember fifty years from now, and you and me being young. When I’m old and wise, darling, I shall wonder why I ever worried about now.’
‘You’re so sure, aren’t you, Roz?’ He laid his cheek on her head, loving the softness of her hair, its newly-washed scent.
‘Very sure. It’s going to come right for us. You’ll finish your tour and Gran will let us get married – well, engaged at least – and I’ll meet your parents, and Pippa. And that’ll only be the start of it. But I am sure.’
‘Always love me? Always be my luck, Roz?’
‘I will, my darling.’
They sat, hands clasped, lapsing into silence, wondering if the terror of last night had happened and grateful that they were here together.
‘I don’t think we’re going to see the cubs,’ he said, sending his cigarette end spinning.
‘Not tonight.’
‘It’s so tranquil up here – so apart, isn’t it?’
‘Just you and me, Paul.’
‘Want to go?’
‘No, darling. Let’s stay.’ She searched with her lips for his own. ‘Love me?’
‘Hullo, lass. Still parky outside, is it?’
‘Just a bit, but it’s going to be another warm day.’ Kath had poked her head round the kitchen door to say good morning and let Grace know she was here. ‘Want anything doing before I start on the milk?’
‘No, but spare me a minute, will you? Tell me what’s going on between Roz and our Jonty.’
‘Sorry?’ Kath hoped her frown was convincing because not for anything would she admit to knowing of the harsh words there’d been about York. ‘Hadn’t noticed anything.’
‘Oh, happen it’s only me poking my nose into what doesn’t concern me, and it isn’t anything I can put a finger on, but –’
‘Sure you aren’t imagining it?’
‘Maybe I am.’ Grace took off her reading glasses and laid them on the kitchen table. ‘I hope so. And it’s no business of mine, is it?’
‘What are you doing?’ Kath had not meant to change tack so obviously, but there seemed no alternative if she wasn’t to pile lie upon lie.
‘You might well ask. It’s counterfoil time again and I can’t abide it. Surname, Christian name and address. Wish we lived in a place that didn’t take so much writing out.’
Soon it would be time to exchange old, used-up ration books for new ones, but before that could be done counterfoils for all the basic commodities, even for clothing coupons, must be laboriously completed in neat block letters. Such a lot of bother for so little food.
‘Leave them. I’ll do a bit of filling-in for you at lunchtime.’ Kath picked up one of the books. ‘Ramsden J. J.? That’s Jonty, isn’t it?’
‘Aye. Jonathan James. Called for Mat’s father, and mine.’
‘He’s lucky. Wish I knew who I’m called for.’
‘Now then, our Kath. Thought we’d got that business settled long ago,’ Grace admonished. ‘Thought we’d decided it wasn’t who you are, but what you are. And yes, happen there is something you can do for me. Fill yon kettle and put it on to boil. We’ll have a cup of tea and be hanged to the dairy for ten minutes! Then pop over to the milking parlour and ask Jonty if he wants a cup, will you?’
‘And Mat?’
‘No. Mat’s over at Ridings looking at the potatoes. Fuss, fuss, fuss. Worrying about frost getting at them, though I told him there’d be no frost, now that May’s here.’
‘There was no frost this morning.’ Kath could understand Mat’s worrying, for all that. Tender, newly-sprouted potato tops could be blighted by one late frost and all the work of ploughing, and harrowing and planting would count for nothing. ‘Cold and sharp and a heavy dew, but no frost.’
‘I know. I told him, but when that man’s got a bee in his bonnet he’ll listen to no one. And he wants me to have a word with you.’
‘What about?’ Kath took mugs from the mantel. ‘Something I’ve done?’
‘No. It’s about your leave – your time off. Had you thought about when you’d like to go?’
Go on leave? Dismayed, Kath shook her head. She hadn’t even thought about it. Time off would be nice, she supposed, but where was she to spend it? Only at Birmingham. Imagine? A week of Aunt Min’s troubles and woes; seven long days of queues for this and queues for that and the risk of air-raids, like as not.
‘Does Mat want me to go now?’
‘Towards the end of the month would be as good a time as any, Kath. Before much longer there’ll be work to be done on the root crops and after that there’ll be the hay to be got in, then the wheat and barley …’
‘I hadn’t given it a lot of thought, truth known.’ She really hadn’t. But perhaps she hadn’t wanted to think about that other life and the house she’d lived in with Barney; a week of being reminded of him and feeling guilty, and Aunt Min doing nothing to help relieve that guilt.
‘Well, put your mind to it and let us know as soon as you can.’
‘Okay. I will. I’ll have a word with Flora or the Warden about it.’ She stirred her tea, frowning. ‘I – I’m sure it’ll be all right.’
‘You don’t sound over sure. Anything wrong?’ Grace demanded, bluntly. ‘You are settled with us? You’re happy here, lass?’
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Kath looked up, smiling. ‘And I’m happy here, Grace. Wouldn’t mind settling in for the duration – if you want me, that is.’
Happy? Too happy, that’s what. Too happy for her own good.
It was a little after noon as Roz crossed the orchard that Jonty called to her to stop.
‘Look, Roz, this thing has gone on long enough.’ His face wore the worried expression that once would have caused her to laugh and say that of course it had; that she’d been going to say she was sorry, anyway. In the past they had quarrelled often then made up with a kiss and a hug, but not now. The old, easy ways were over.
‘Has it? Well, it can go on a whole lot longer, as far as I’m concerned.’ She made to climb the fence but he moved quickly, barring her way.
‘Don’t, Roz. We’ve got to work together – can’t we at least try to be civil, if only for Mum’s sake? She knows something’s wrong between us.’
‘Then you should have thought about that when you stuck your nose in and presumed to become keeper of my morals. I’m sorry Grace is upset, but why don’t you tell her what it’s all about? Why don’t you tell her you called me a tart? Go on. Tell her!’
Her chin jutted defiance though she was afraid inside. Jonty had the right to be angry – the Jonty she had looked on as a brother, that was. But everything had changed now. The easiness between them was gone and she didn’t know how to cope with a Jonty who loved and wanted her.
‘I’m sorry. I’d no right to say what I did. I overstepped the mark, didn’t I?’
‘You did, Jonty, so let’s leave it at that, shall we?’
‘And we’re speaking again?’
‘I suppose so. If we must. Only as long as you stop treating me like your kid sister and stop thinking that anything I do is any business of yours.’
‘Point taken.’ She was offering crumbs, but he’d settle for that. He looked at her with sadness, acknowledging that the time for hoping was over. He would never have her. She belonged to someone else; to a man who wore a glamorous uniform and lived life on a knife edge. ‘And okay – you’ve grown up. I admit it.’
Hesitantly he held out his hand but she would not take it. She couldn’t let him touch her; not now that everything was out in the open. He mustn’t love her. She belonged to Paul.
‘Then don’t ever forget it, Jonty.’
‘I won’t.’ His face was grave and pale with misery.
She turned abruptly then, and walked away, head high, shoulders taut, with an ache inside her for an innocence lost.
Sorry, Jonty. So sorry …