TEN

February snarled in on a bitter north wind. It was still dark though the early morning sky showed a thin streak of cold yellow light to the east. Rosamund knew her father was already about; could hear him calling the cows, from the foldyard.

‘Morning, Dad. Playing up a bit, are they?’

‘When did you ever see the dratted cow that didn’t? And they say sheep are the stupid ones!’

Rosamund smiled, all at once light-hearted, though she didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because she was becoming more relaxed, more sure of herself. After her mother’s warning about girls who got themselves into trouble, no more had been said on the matter, which was as well, Rosamund thought, since she hadn’t got pregnant! She called back their first loving and how she had wondered if her period would come, and it had. On the exact day. Yet she would not have been surprised if it hadn’t; had been ready to accept that a child would have been the natural outcome of so passionate a coupling.

Soon, they would no longer be able to go to the hayloft. Now, blackout curtains were not drawn until seven at night, with total darkness arriving half an hour later. Before long, clocks would be put forward to double summertime, and in June the days would last until almost midnight; long, warm days. She longed for them. After the drear of winter and a blackout that could last for sixteen hours, a sun-filled, flower-bright summer would be heaven.

Things at home, she pondered as she scrubbed her hands in a bucket of blissfully hot water, were not so tense now; as if her mother had finally acknowledged that she must accept what she was powerless to change. Yet for all that, Rosamund could turn suddenly to find the older woman’s eyes on her, a strange, watching expression in them.

It no longer seemed important that Jon be allowed to call at Laburnum Farm because she was content with the way things were; they were lovers, married save in the eyes of the Church. And did words from a prayer book matter all that much? Marriage was for the procreation of children – it said so, in the marriage service – and since Jon was making sure they did no such thing, society’s approval seemed less urgent.

She dried her hands, then put on apron and milking cap, forcing her thoughts back to reality, trying not to think that tonight J-Johnnie would almost certainly be flying its seventeenth operation over enemy territory and that for Jon, if she wanted to be nit-picky and include his first seven, it would be only six off his thirty. A tour of ops, she cautiously admitted, now seemed possible.

From the far end of the shippon she could hear the hiss of milk as it hit the bottom of her father’s pail. From each stall came a slow, steady munching, punctuated by snorts and blows and the occasional flick of a tail. She rested her forehead against the belly of the cow and took the udders in her hands, squeezing and pulling rhythmically, imitating the sucking of a calf.

Life was, she thought, full of contradictions; of highs, when she and Jon were together; and lows, when she stood at the steel-mesh fence, counting. Then there were ordinary things like milking on a dark morning, red-nosed with cold, to be set against the delight of dancing with Jon, or waiting at the little gate, counting the minutes until he came.

She was, she had to admit, the luckiest girl ever, and soon she would be the most thankful because even though they never talked about finishing the tour, she knew now that Jon’s crew were increasingly confident of making it – and oh, please, they would!

‘Bye!’ Rosamund called to her parents who sat at the kitchen table, trying to get order into a box filled with bills and invoices and receipts; all the paraphernalia that went with the running of a dairy farm.

Her father lifted a hand without taking his eyes from the papers he was arranging into piles, telling her to be off and not to be late in. He always said it now. It kept the peace and saved her mother saying it; maybe adding some sharp remark that could spark off an upset.

So complicated had the farm accounts become that her parents had taken the minister’s advice and sought professional help. Tomorrow, at half-past two, her father would take the shoebox and dump it thankfully on the accountant’s desk. Accountants cost money, but Mildred Kenton had said she was sick of form-filling and the like and was no longer able to make sense of accounts for the tax inspector! And Bart had agreed wholeheartedly and was glad to be rid of the worry.

Rosamund made for the iron gate. They waited there now, until it was dark enough to slip into the barn. Impatient to see him, she walked down the lane towards the crossroads, pausing at the signpost which, before its arms had been removed for security reasons, had pointed to Laceby Green on the one hand, and Lancaster on the other. She could just make out the lonely outline of the post in the near-dark, and wondered how long it would be before railway stations had names on them again, and signposts showed people which way to go, and lights shone through windows in the darkness. Perhaps those things were not so far away. Talk of the second front was becoming more and more insistent, and papers printed every scrap of news the Ministry of Information thought prudent to release about it. It was no longer if, but where, and when.

‘If you could see what They’ve got on the south coast! Rows and rows of guns and trucks and tanks and landing craft and Lord knows what else, covered with camouflage netting! You’d never believe it!’ Joe Drake had said on his last leave, tapping his nose with a forefinger. ‘That lot will wonder what’s hit them when we go in!’

But more than that he had not been prepared to say, except that one of the chiefies on his ship was taking bets on where the second front would be. Joe had had a couple of bob on Dunkirk, because it stood to reason it would be, after what had happened there four years ago.

She waited, listening to night sounds, glad there seemed to have been a news clampdown on anything about rockets, because even mention of the word sent her mother into fits of depression after reminding them she had been right all along, and they hadn’t heard the last of those rockets, mark her words they hadn’t!

Rosamund blanked out her thoughts and stood, breath indrawn, impatient for the sound of Jon’s footsteps, deciding she had waited here long enough; that she would walk to six oaks and meet him there. How desperately she loved him!

‘I should think,’ Rosamund whispered from the shelter of Jon’s arms, ‘that we’ll soon have to be looking for another place.’

‘Anywhere in mind?’

‘There’s an empty cottage I know of; it’s padlocked and the bottom windows are boarded up, but I’m sure we could find a way in.’

‘Why isn’t it lived in?’

‘Their water supply got contaminated and the health people condemned it. Like most places around here, they didn’t have mains water, you see.’

‘So if you could get an afternoon off or even a couple of hours, we could do a recce, though I’d still give a lot for us to have just one night together.’

‘So isn’t this enough for you, Jon?’

‘No, it isn’t! I want you with me always; want you to belong!’

‘But I do!’

‘I want to call you wife, Rosie; want every man who sets eyes on you to envy me. You’re so lovely to love, it hurts like hell to leave you.’

‘But it’s like that for me too. How do you think I feel when I know you are flying and all I can do is stand there and watch you go, then worry myself sick till you’re back?’

‘Sorry, sweetheart.’ He kissed her gently. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. What we have now is more than I could ever have hoped for, that night we met, but it doesn’t stop me wishing we could be married. Tomorrow! And, Rosie – talking about tomorrow, we’re almost certain to be flying, and after that they’ve slapped a seventy-two-hour leave pass on the crew. I won’t see you for ages.’

‘Can’t be helped.’ She tried hard to keep her dismay from showing. ‘And at least I’ll know you are out of harm’s way. You’ll be going on Saturday morning, then?’

‘No. Leave doesn’t start until noon. I’ll be getting the two o’clock train from Preston.’

‘Then if I could be at Bessie’s house, could you try to ring me? I’m sure Mrs Drake wouldn’t mind if I gave you their phone number. Bessie’s mum is OK; she knows about us. The number is Laceby Green 734; can you remember it?’

‘I can. And you’re talking too much. Can you shut up just long enough for me to kiss you – very thoroughly?’

The crew of J-Johnnie was cock-a-hoop. Back from Berlin, their seventeenth op behind them, and a three-day leave to come. It had been the worst raid ever, but Skip had got them home. Jammy, he was, and a bloody fine pilot, and when they’d got their tour over and done with, they wouldn’t mind, they said, crewing up again – after a respectable spell away from operational flying, of course – and doing another thirty! Provided they could do them in J-Johnnie, Lord love the old kite, and have Jon Hunt in the driving seat again!

Yet Jon, wise beyond his years, warned them to watch it, and not do their gloating out loud, and though he didn’t say as much, he knew that RAF Laceby Green had been lucky in not losing a single crew in the three months it had been up and running; had wanted to remind them that luck was a fickle thing, and that Laceby’s could run out at the drop of a hat!

He didn’t, though, because when they had had breakfast and shaved and showered and togged themselves up in their best uniforms, buttons polished and stripes gleaming white, they would pile into the transport that would take them to the station, and home, where for three days they could forget flying.

Jon thought about the soft, springy bed with the blue eiderdown and wished Rosie could be with him. But the dragon lady wouldn’t allow it; come to think of it he wasn’t at all sure that Aunt Lottie would either; not actually in her own home!

He was tired. Some of his answers to the debriefing officer’s persistent questioning had been short and to the point. He’d made it there, hadn’t he; dropped his load and got back? What more did the desk-bound clot want? But he would feel better when he had washed away the sweat of the night and was on the train.

Laceby Green 734. Bessie’s place. And Rosie would try to be there tonight and Sunday night, waiting for his call. Come to think of it, it would be the first time he had ever phoned her.

‘See you all then.’ He picked up his flying jacket. ‘Half-twelve outside the guardroom – OK?’

And they chorused back that sure as hell it was OK! They were going home, weren’t they, and were off flying for three days and three safe nights? They’d be there, all right, leave passes and travel warrants at the ready!

Poor old Skip. He’d got it bad. Not that you could blame him. Rosie was a real good-looker and pretty gone on him too. Pity she had a mother who could put Boadicea in the shade – or so Mick’s dancing partner said!

Ah, well, it took all sorts, didn’t they say, and tired but high as kites, they were off on a crafty seventy-two, so what the heck?

Rosamund had been waiting for twenty minutes at the station entrance when the transport from RAF Laceby Green arrived. Two crews were on weekend passes and Jon was the last to get out. He looked tired, she thought; there were rings beneath his eyes and his face was pale. Then he pushed his hair from his forehead with his left hand, and put on his cap. So small a thing; so endearing. Half the time he didn’t know he was doing it and it made her eyes prick with little tears because she loved him so much.

‘Rosie!’ He turned to see her standing there and his smile was instant and warm. ‘How did you manage it?’ He held out his arms and she went into them, lifting her lips to be kissed.

‘I decided I needed a haircut, and it worked,’ she laughed, lacing her fingers in his, smiling into his eyes.

‘Don’t have it cut too short, Rosie.’

‘Not cut, darling; just the bitty ends trimmed. And I’ve brought you six eggs – stolen from Laburnum Farm!’

‘Six! All at once!’ He opened the khaki case of his respirator and she saw that the mask and canister had been removed and the inside stuffed with shirts and socks and underwear. ‘My washing,’ he explained, wrapping a shirt round the brown paper bag. ‘Aunt Lottie will be really glad of these. Wish you were coming with me, darling.’

‘Mm. But I’ll be at Bessie’s tonight and tomorrow night and at least I won’t panic so much when the circuits and bumps start.’ They had found an empty bench and were content just to sit close, shoulders and thighs touching, until the train left. ‘Are you expected, Jon?’

‘No, but I’ve got a key. I don’t want to leave you, Rosie. Shall we sit here till Tuesday?’

‘Idiot.’ She laid her head on his shoulder. ‘Remember, you’re to get lots of sleep and wear your civvies and relax a bit. And try to get through to Laceby, let me know you’ve got there safely.’

‘Darling girl! I can find my way to Berlin and back in the dark. Getting to Lower Sellow will be a piece of cake! And I think you should go now. The train looks like it’s leaving, and I don’t want you to wave me off.’ He got to his feet, pulling her into his arms, kissing her gently. ‘I’ll ring you tonight. Don’t know what time, but I’ll keep trying till I get through. And don’t let them cut too much off your hair?’

‘I won’t,’ she whispered. ‘See you, Jon. Love you …’

She hurried away, resisting the need to turn round for a last look, wanting desperately to be with him; refusing to let herself think how wonderful three days – and nights together – would be.

But at least, she thought tremulously, he would be safe for three days. And nights.

Rosamund leaned on the dry-stone wall, arms folded. Ahead lay Beacon Fell and Parlick Pike and, darker in the distance, Fair Snape. So wild and beautiful; miles and miles of moorland, rising and falling, interspersed by stretches of trees to remind that long ago, when the north of England was ungovernable, there had been a great, dense area of trees known as the Forest of Bowland. She was glad that tracts of that forest still existed.

Now the sky was grey, the fells sombre. Only when spring came would the dull green of spruces be laced with flowering rowan trees, the pale, silky green of unfolding beech leaves and wild, white cherry blossom. And in summer, when they collected bilberries, all squashy and purple, the heather would flower and turn the hilltops to lavender pink.

Up here, for as far as she could see, there was no sign of human habitation; no curls of woodsmoke from stout stone chimney stacks; not even the faraway bark of a dog. There were roofless houses in the distance, though, their slates long ago plundered so the elements had eroded window frames and wooden floors, and all that remained were walls and wide, deep hearths covered with moss and weeds. Sad, really, if you thought too much about it.

The cottage called Fellfoot – it couldn’t have been given any other name – was the only one that still stood secure, almost hidden between two bluffs of rock. Outside it was a well, filled with rubble, and to the left the polluted stream still ran in a shallow gully, dammed, further down, to make a pond. Dad could remember when ducks swam on that pond, and people lived there. Now the pond was still and grey and calm, the trees around it bare and lifeless as if it waited for summer and the return of wild fowl and water hens.

Fellfoot’s roof was stone-slabbed and, because of the weight of it, had been left untouched. Its doors were padlocked, its downstairs windows covered with corrugated sheets. Had it not been for the undrinkable water, people could live there still, Rosamund pondered.

There were no hedges nor fences around the deserted house; only a stretch of dry-stone wall to protect it from the worst of the winter gales. The doorstep at the front gave way not to a tidy, flower-planted path, but to the tussocky grass of the moor. No pigs squealed in the sty; no sheep bearing Fellfoot’s mark roamed the hills. Once, anyone living there need never see their nearest neighbour, fifteen minutes’ walk away, from one Sunday to the next – unless they wanted to. The windows were of stone; the sheeting had been hammered into it with huge nails. Stout padlocks secured the front and back doors; only the wide, narrow upstairs windows had been spared, to stare, unblinking, to the tops of the fells.

The pale February sun slipped behind a hill to remind Rosamund it was time to go home; go back to Laburnum that smelled of furniture polish and lavender bags and things cooking in Margaret Dacre’s kitchen. Laburnum was all the things Fellfoot was not, yet it seemed to Rosamund that when the last family left the wild, isolated farmstead, likely as not for a modern council house in Clitheroe, they left behind a little of their contentment, because she knew it had once been a happy house, where children ran free and paddled in the stream and fed the ducks that nested beside the pond.

She hurried towards home, because already she had wished away the weed-choked gutters, the peeling paint, the unwashed windows. Now, in her mind, the doors and windows had been painted and a red rose climbed the stone walls. Now Fellfoot was her home – hers and Jon’s – because a small miracle had brought clean water to it. And the war was long over and their children ran free on the fells and threw stale bread to the ducks that swam there again.

All at once she was at the armless signpost and Laburnum Farm only a few yards away at the end of the dirt road. It was called coming down to earth with a bump, she thought dolefully, because Fellfoot would go the same way as the other ruins, given time, and until then it would mock young lovers needing to be alone, because it was too securely protected for anyone ever to get inside it.

She pushed open the squeaky gate, lingering her hand on it because Jon had waited there so many times, then hurrying because milking began at four and finished before it was time for blackout. Milking. Always, always cows to be milked! Yet soon, she thought as she pulled on dungarees and smock, winter would be gone and birds would sing and the evenings would be long and light. It would, she thought gratefully, be like escaping from a damp, dark dungeon into sunlight and warmth.

To indulge herself, and because she wouldn’t see Jon tonight, she took out his picture, whispering, ‘Hi! Have a good leave. I miss you!’ wishing she had a photograph of herself to give to him. But films for the cameras of civilians were almost a thing of the past, because the Armed Forces’ – especially the RAF’s – need of them came first. Only rarely could one be bought over a shop counter, to be cherished and used only on the most important occasions.

It was a pity, Rosamund sighed, that the last formal photograph she’d had taken was of the class of ’37, Clitheroe Grammar School. Rosamund Kenton, staring into the camera, her hair in plaits. And Bessie beside her, whose eyes, even on so solemn an occasion, were bright with mischief. Bessie had always treated life as a giggle.

Dear Bessie. She had answered the phone last night, then hurried to the kitchen, demanding to know if anyone was expecting a call, then closing the door firmly behind her so no one should hear what was being said.

‘Hi, darling. I love you.’ Jon’s voice had sounded deep and husky over the phone. She must remember, Rosamund thought, that the first words of their first ever phone call had been ‘I love you’.

‘Got to go,’ he’d said softly, when pips interrupted the call to warn them their three minutes had only a few seconds to run. ‘I’ll phone tomorrow night. Love you …’

She had felt very alone when she replaced the receiver, longing for Jon, wishing they could be in the hay barn or even at the aerodrome dance. But as Bessie had pointed out, it was no use going to the dance when both Jon and Mick were on leave. No use her doing anything, except to wish for Tuesday night. And on Tuesday night she would be as late in as she wanted, because she wouldn’t have seen Jon for four days, nor kissed him, nor loved him.

She put away the photograph then hurried to the shippon and the boring task of milking. It was as well, she thought, that once into her rhythm, she could blank it all out and think of Jon, living again their precious times; recalling his mouth, his smile and every whisper and touch of their loving.

Jon had been gentle, patient, at first; holding back his passion until she had learned to be a part of it, match it with her own. Now she was unashamed of the need in her eyes and her eagerness to couple. Loving Jon, being loved by him, was as normal now as breathing out and breathing in and a million times more marvellous. It was why she knew she had been wrong to wish Jon had not gone on leave; knew it as she awakened suddenly this morning to lay in the darkness, counting.

Two Lancasters had not returned from last night’s operations, nor would they. It was on the midday news bulletin: a thousand-bomber raid on Essen and eighty-seven of our planes unaccounted for – two of them from Jon’s squadron. War had come to Laceby Green at last and taken fourteen young men. She had thanked God over and over again in chapel; thanked Him for a seventy-two-hour leave pass and that J-Johnnie had not been one of RAF Laceby Green’s first casualties.

‘Shall I start milking, Dad, or put the fodder out?’ she called.

‘Make a start, lass. I’ll see to the feed.’

His reply pleased Rosamund, because she could slip into her own secret world all the sooner.

‘How long is it since Fellfoot was lived in?’ she asked as she scrubbed her hands. ‘I went for a walk towards the tops whilst you were having your Sunday snooze and wondered about it. It must have been a solid little house once.’

‘Still is. Built to last. It was when you were a little lass – before you went to school. We had a very dry summer and something happened to the water that supplied the well. They had a boy taken ill and it turned out the water was to blame. The health people shifted them out quicker’n you could say Jack Robinson. The well was filled up and the primer taken out of the pump, an’ all.’

‘So it’s been empty about fourteen years? Such a pity, Dad …’

‘Aye. But everything depends on water, Rosamund. In the old days, before sewers and sanitation, folk built where there was water. With Laburnum, there was once a stream and that sufficed till they’d sunk a well and set up a pump. Beautiful water we’ve got; clear as crystal. Hope they’ll never bring tap water here. We’d all be badly, I shouldn’t wonder, and have to pay for the dratted stuff into the bargain. Were you up there with your young man?’

‘No, Dad. He’s on leave. I went to Bessie’s last night. But I’ll make a start. It’s grand, isn’t it, doing afternoon milking in the daylight?’

She put on her cap, washed the first cow’s udders in warm water, then settled herself down to her daydreaming and thoughts of living in a house amazingly like Fellfoot, with Jon – and making love. And of sleeping in a big, soft bed with Jon – and being lovers. And of Tuesday night, and waiting at the kissing gate for Jon – and staying out very late …

It wasn’t until the milk had been cooled and poured into churns and the herd secure in the foldyard that it happened. Something very ordinary, but which seemed to catch her gaze and hold it and make her wonder why suddenly she should notice a bunch of keys that must have been there for years.

It was hanging on an iron nail by the side of the keeping pantry door. There were many keys on it – at least thirty – and all in different sizes and shapes. Some were old-fashioned and heavy – very much like the one which had found its way into her pocket not so very long ago – and all of them looked as if they hadn’t been used in years. Keys. For doors and locks – and padlocks?

She reached for them, surprised they were so heavy, wondering if, amongst them, was one that would fit the lock on either of Fellfoot’s doors.

‘It’s a long shot, of course,’ she said to Bessie that night, ‘but it’s worth a try. Dad had a letter from the accountant. He wants him and my mother to see him on Tuesday. They’ll be gone for at least two hours, so I shall go there and see if there’s a key to Fellfoot.’

‘But you can’t, Rosamund! You’d be trespassing!’

‘On whose property?’

‘It’ll be breaking and entering.’

‘No it won’t! But wouldn’t it be just my luck for the door to fall off its hinges when I try to open it?’

‘You’ll never get in there,’ Bessie warned. ‘And just supposing you did – what are you going to find?’

‘A few cobwebs, maybe.’

‘Cobwebs! It could be filthy, Rosamund!’

‘So we won’t know, will we, until we’ve had a look inside?’

‘You really mean it, don’t you? You’d go into that mucky old ruin and – and – do that? It won’t be a bit romantic. Do you expect to find a bed in there, or something?’

‘Not even in my wildest dreams, Bess. But Fellfoot isn’t a ruin and I’m sure it isn’t dirty inside. There won’t have been any tramps or roadsters using it either. It looks as if nobody’s been in it for years.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t go there,’ Bessie spluttered, red-cheeked. ‘Not for anything!’

‘Not even to be with a man you’re crazy about?’

‘By the heck, Rosamund Kenton, you’ve changed, I’ll say that for you! Once you wouldn’t have said boo to a goose, yet now you’re – you’re –’

‘In love,’ she said softly as the phone began to ring. ‘That’ll be Jon. Talk of angels …’

Mildred Kenton sat straight-backed, her silk-stockinged legs dangling inelegantly over the edge of the trailer. She was wearing her winter coat and hat and clutched her bag with both hands as if afraid of falling off – or maybe because her daughter was driving the tractor and in her opinion, inclined to take bends too quickly. Beside her sat her husband in his Sunday suit, relieved to be handing over the complicated business of the farm accounts at last.

‘Stop here, please!’ Mildred called as they approached the village, because not for anything would she be seen riding behind a tractor! ‘This’ll do nicely. We’ll walk the rest of the way!’

Rosamund waited until they reached the bus stop outside the White Hart, then reversed, waving as she went, planning how to use her two-and-a-bit hours. The dinner dishes had to be seen to and a pan of potatoes peeled – and she would have to remember to build up the kitchen fire and leave it safe. After which her time was her own!

Her heart thudded. It always did when she was about to do something she shouldn’t, but she could only think that today Jon was due back from leave, that there had been no sign of any circuits and bumps and that it was almost certain they would meet tonight. And when they did, she wanted to be able to tell him she had found a way in to Fellfoot and how it would be a good place to go until the days were warm and they could loose themselves in the wildness and the wideness of the hills and be lovers; just she and Jon beneath miles and miles of sky, and no one to see them. She harboured none of Bessie’s doubts about the isolated house. She only wished she could make her friend understand how wonderful their loving was and how it had never seemed, right from the start, that they were doing wrong. There was a war on and you lived for the day; tomorrow never came, thank God, because tomorrow might trail unhappiness behind it, and it was best not to know what was written in your Book of Life.

Parking tractor and trailer, she ran to the house. The big iron kettle on the hob was puffing steam and she emptied it into the brown sink. Dishes, spuds, fire, then off up the fell to the little house! She was so happy she began to sing.

Thirty-three keys lay on the kitchen table, and no two alike. Rosamund discarded the least likely; the old, heavy iron ones that looked as if Margaret Dacre’s hand could have turned them. Threading them back on the wire loop, she selected smaller, more modern keys that looked as if they might fit a padlock; there were nine and she slipped them into the right-hand pocket of her jacket.

Then she pulled on gumboots and made for the kennel. She would take Shep with her; a walk was just what he needed when he spent most of the day and night on the end of a chain! She bent to release him and he licked her hand, yapping like an over-excited puppy.

‘Off with you then! Seek!’

She watched him go, nose down, tail wagging, sniffing the scent of rabbits, or the vixen, maybe. It was his reward for awakening her each time the bombers returned, and she smiled, loving the creature, loving everything she could see: the rise of land behind the paddock, Parlick, and Beacon Fell to her left and sombre Pendle behind her, where no trees grew and no birds nested; the witches’ hill.

She crossed the fingers of her left hand and spat. People around these parts always did that when they spoke of, or even thought about, witches. Then calling to Shep she made for the little stone house, looking at her watch to check the time it would take if she took the fell track. There were easier ways of getting there, but only if you knew the fields and walls and ditches like the back of your hand – and not in the dark!

The narrow road gave way to a track and from there, veering to her right, she looked for landmarks that could be picked out by torchlight; a clump of leafless rowan trees, a huge round boulder, the pointed bluff they called witch-hat rock. Then she saw the sweep of dry-stone wall ahead. Walking slowly, it had taken twenty minutes. She dipped her fingers into her pocket, touching the keys, letting go a deep sigh. Soon, she would know …

Only three of the nine keys fitted the padlock on the front door, and not one of them turned. She had done it systematically, placing each discarded key into her left-hand pocket. She tried the three again and again until her fingers became sore, then dejectedly admitted defeat.

She whistled to the dog then made for the door that was lower, stouter, its padlock heavier. Only one key fitted and she pulled in her breath and turned it to the left.

‘Yes!’ She had done it!

She tugged at the hasp and it parted from the lock in a shower of powdery rust. Dry-mouthed, she unhooked it from the chain, which swung with a clatter against the door jamb. Then she lifted the big wooden latch, put her foot against the door, and pushed.

With a creak it gave an inch and she quickly pulled it shut again, her hands trembling as she wound the chain around the latch and slipped home the padlock, clicking it shut.

‘That’s it then, Shep.’ She slipped the precious key into her trouser pocket, then stooping low, blew the rust from the step, looking for more telltale marks. But her boots had made no imprint in the springy grass, and only a trickle against the door showed that Shep had left his mark against it.

She turned and began to run, slipping and sliding downwards, the dog thinking it was a game and bounding ahead, barking. She did not stop until she reached the armless signpost, then leaned against it because her heart thudded in her ears and she didn’t know if it was from exertion or triumph. Then she walked slowly up the lane, past the standing for the milk churns, all the while pulling in her breath, holding it, letting it go in little huffs. By the time she unlocked the dairy door, she was calm again. And by the time she had driven the tractor to Laceby to pick up her parents at the bus stop, thirty-two keys were back on the loop that hung on a nail beside the keeping-pantry door.

She had found a way in to Fellfoot, tonight she would see Jon, and life was wonderful!

Mildred Kenton was in a rare benign mood, partly because the outing had made a break in farm routine and partly because the accountant proved to be both intelligent and charming and assured them they would save more than the cost of his fee by placing their financial affairs in his hands.

When they left, he had seen them to the door, shaken each by the hand and told them he hoped to have a balance sheet ready very soon for their perusal.

‘It seems, Bart, that the man is going to be worth all the money he’ll charge.’

‘Aye. Reckon he knows what he’s talking about!’

‘The kettle is on,’ Rosamund called over her shoulder as she drove. ‘It’ll just be coming to the boil by the time we get back.’ The change in her mother, albeit temporary, pleased her. ‘There’ll be time for a drink before we start on the cows, Dad.’

‘What did you do with yourself, Rosamund?’

‘I – we-e-ll – I did all you told me to,’ she gasped, startled, because lately her mother seldom spoke to her directly. ‘Then I went up towards the tops for half an hour.’

‘Walking? Alone?’

‘No, Mother.’ She had recovered her composure. ‘I took Shep with me for company.’

No more was said until they reached Laburnum Farm, when her mother thanked her father for helping her down from the trailer.

Then speaking to no one in particular she said, ‘Next time we go to see the accountant, we must ask him if we can afford a car.’

‘We probably can, Milly! Cars come cheap now because of the petrol shortage. What we’ve got to ask ourselves is whether the expense would be justified. The petrol ration goes nowhere; half the time, cars are standing idle with empty tanks! And we’ve got the pony and trap. Ponies don’t run on petrol!’

‘Maybe not, but you can’t leave a horse and cart outside the accountant’s, now can you, and it isn’t very dignified, bouncing on the back of a tractor to the village, then waiting for a bus, having folks gawping at you when you get on!’

‘It was probably from shock, Mother. You so rarely go to the village.’

‘Which is more than can be said for my daughter, who seems rarely away from it, these days!’

Rosamund caught her father’s anxious glance, and smiled to let him know there would be no words, because it took two to quarrel and she was much, much too happy to rise to the bait.

‘I’ll back the tractor up to the cooling-shed door,’ she said evenly, ‘and then I’ll make us a pot of tea.’

Tonight she would see Jon again. Her head was full of thoughts of him, her heart thudded with happiness, and the acid taunt went over her head.

She laughed out loud as she started the tractor. She was learning to cope with her mother’s moods, her mistrust. Things that once drove her to tears could no longer hurt her; her luck had changed. She had even found a key to Fellfoot’s back door!

‘We’ll have to stop coming here soon,’ Rosamund whispered, because they always seemed to whisper in the hayloft.

‘Suppose so, but we’ve been lucky – even Shep didn’t give us away. And like you said, sweetheart, the light nights are coming.’

‘So what would you say if I told you I’d found somewhere?’

‘The old place, you mean, that’s boarded up?’

‘And padlocked. Well, I just happen to have a key to the back door!’

‘But how did you come by it, Rosie?’

‘Magic! I live in a witch-house!’

She told him about the bunch of old keys and finding one that fitted, and how the door had opened just a little.

‘I could have gone inside, I suppose, but I thought it best to wait till you were there.’

‘Glad you did. You never know what you might have found!’

‘You’re as bad as Bessie! And it wasn’t because I was afraid. I’m sure there’s nothing inside. Why I didn’t go in was because I was afraid to push the door too far in case it came off its hinges. It hasn’t been opened for years!’

‘Then wait till I’m with you. Maybe we can get up there in the daylight without anyone seeing us – take a look?’

‘We can fork left at the crossroads, come at it from the pond side. The fell track is the easiest way, but we might be seen. I’ll try to go there again tomorrow afternoon – find another way.’

‘I wish it could be all above board, sweetheart! And what did you tell Bessie?’

‘Only that it would be a great place for us to go – if we could get in. She didn’t much favour the idea, but she isn’t in love.’

‘Do you tell her – everything?’

‘Of course not! But she wouldn’t blab. I trust her. If I were really, really in a corner, it would be Bess I’d want by me – if I’d never met you, I mean …’

‘I suppose every woman needs someone close. Men aren’t like that. We keep things bottled up, most of the time. We only let it go if we’ve had a few pints or something.’

‘Men can’t cry either. It seems unfair. Have you ever wanted to cry, Jon?’

‘I suppose so. When I’ve been afraid – on ops, mostly. And sometimes just before takeoff.’

She pulled him closer and laid her cheek to his. ‘I’d say it was natural to be afraid.’

‘We all are, sometimes, but we don’t admit it. And I get the wind up because I’ve got six other blokes to look out for – one of them married, with a kid. And now it’s worse, because there’s you.’

‘Darling, darling! Sssssh! It wouldn’t be pushing my luck if I reminded you that next time Johnnie goes, it’ll be the eighteenth – and your twenty-fifth. I reckon you’re getting the hang of it, Sergeant!’

‘Reckon I am.’ He heard the teasing in her voice and relaxed and laughed.

‘You’ll be fine, Jon. We love each other too much for you not to be. And we’ve got this, haven’t we?’ She whispered her lips across his eyelids, his nose, his cheeks, then pushed aside the lock of hair to kiss his forehead. ‘And it’s all right to be afraid. That way you’ll get back. Don’t ever get complacent, will you, and blow it?’

‘I won’t. And you’re cold, Rosie. Slip your sweater on.’

‘Mm. You don’t notice the cold, do you, until – afterwards. It’s why I can’t wait for summer. Imagine how it’ll be when the grass is dry and warm, and there’s only the sky to see us.’

She kissed the hollow at his throat then took his hand, kissing each fingertip, and he told her to behave herself and not be such an abandoned hussy. And she laughed throatily, indulgently, sure of their love.

‘Oh, Rosie Kenton, I do love you!’ His brief, sombre mood was over and he knew that if he let himself, he could well imagine finishing the tour with J-Johnnie, and being taken off flying for a time; could think about tomorrow without crossing his fingers. ‘Do you know how much?’

‘Absolutely,’ she whispered. ‘And I know you’ll be flying tomorrow night, but I’ll be here, wishing you well, willing you safely home. And it will all come right for us, Jon. You’ll do your thirty! I know it!’

‘Here’s the pond.’ Rosamund clicked on her torch. ‘Keep to the left of it; it’s boggy, in places. It looks a bit ordinary now, but it’s a lovely spot in summer. When the trees are green again we’ll come to Fellfoot a lot, and no one will know we’re here.’

‘Have you got the key, Rosie?’

‘In my pocket. It’s as if we’re looking the property over, isn’t it, with a view to renting it, or even buying it, though anyone with half an ounce of sense would do it in the daylight. Would you ever consider living in an out-of-the-way place like this, Jon?’

‘I think if I got rich, I’d consider it as a holiday place; somewhere we could bring the kids – let them run free. They’d like Fellfoot. No water to wash in,’ he laughed. ‘Shall we try the back door then? Will I carry you over the threshold?’

‘Idiot!’ She fished in her pocket for the key. ‘Don’t drop it or we’ll never find it again.’

She shone her torch on the door, and he turned the key and unhooked the padlock and chain, pushing gently on the door. The hinges creaked, and held steady. He pushed again and there was a crackling of dry leaves rustling in the sudden draught of air. And then the door was wide open, and hanging firm.

‘I’ll go first.’

He sent a beam of light down the passage. The floor was red-tiled; to either side of them a door. He opened the one to the left, and the musty smell he had expected was not there.

Rosamund followed him into the room, sweeping her torch from side to side, picking out an iron fireplace with a stone hearth and mantel. There was an iron bar across it and she knew that once, cooking pots had hung there.

‘The kitchen,’ she said softly. It was a low, large room with boarded-up windows at either end. ‘Do you think we could light a fire, sometimes? There’s plenty of wood about. No one would know – the windows are covered up.’

‘People might see the smoke in the distance, and wonder about it. Don’t think we should risk it.’

She swung her light to the ceiling and the blackened beams, solid and rough. In two of them were large hooks where once lamps must have hung.

‘She would do all the cooking on that fire, Jon. No gas or electricity up here. I’ll bet that iron oven baked lovely bread. Wonder how many children they had? Dad vaguely remembers it being lived in, but I didn’t push it; didn’t want him to think I was too interested.’

‘It’s a huge kitchen. I suppose they’d have had a big table in the middle of it.’

‘And a big oak dresser on the wall, with blue and white plates and copper jugs on it, and a rag rug on the hearth,’ she said longingly. ‘Abandoned houses are sad, aren’t they? It’s as if this one is waiting for someone to live in it again.’

‘I suppose the other room was once the parlour.’

The room to the right of the passageway was a replica of the kitchen, save for the iron fire basket in the ingle, with two high-backed benches built into either side of it. In the corner, their lights picked out a staircase with wide, shallow treads.

‘Amazing! It’s as if this place has been asleep for years; doesn’t even know there’s a war on.’

‘Lucky little house.’ All at once there was a choke of tears in her throat because she wanted to live in it with Jon and shut the war out; shut out everything and everyone. And she wanted to sweep the floors, rip down the sheeting from the downstairs windows, light fires so the flames lit up the room and danced shadows across the uneven walls.

‘I’ll take a look at the bedrooms. Stay here, Rosie, till I’ve checked the stairs.’

She waited, hand on the newel post, calling to him to be careful, counting each probing footstep.

‘It’s OK. You can come up, now. And watch your torch, darling. Keep it low. The windows up here aren’t covered.’

‘Jon! It’s amazing!’ The two bedrooms were wooden-floored; each had a little iron firegrate and a stone hearth. ‘And it isn’t a bit smelly or damp. You could live here, you really could, if it wasn’t for the water. Do you like it?’

‘Yes, I do. It’s a friendly little place. Pity there’s no hay …’

‘The floor won’t be too hard. I don’t expect a four-poster bed, Jon Hunt!’

‘You’re a devious wench!’ He scooped her into his arms. ‘And I love you. Shall we stay here?’

‘No. Let’s say goodbye to the hayloft, tonight? After tonight, Fellfoot will be our own special place; we’ll play make-believe here, Jon.’

‘Pretend the war is over and you’ve magicked a water tap into the kitchen and we’re expecting our third?’

‘Something like that,’ she whispered, kissing him. ‘We must lock up carefully, so no one will know we’ve been.’

‘I think we’ll take a lease on this property,’ Jon laughed, ‘for the duration. Would that suit you, darling?’

‘It would suit me very nicely. What say we move in tomorrow night?’

‘Tomorrow night will probably be out. Let’s make it the night after …’

They picked their way slowly to the road, being careful not to use their lights too much, because even the brief flaring of a match seemed to look like a beacon in the denseness of the blackout. Then they walked hand in hand past the crossroads and on to the little creaking gate, opening it carefully, making for the hay barn.

She was, she thought, just as happy as ever she could be; happy about Fellfoot, about Jon, whose tour of ops was going well; happy that they were lovers.

God, this is Rosamund Kenton. Thank you for this happiness – and please, I beg You, don’t take it from us …