A Christmas Promise (14 page)

As she went through the hall into the kitchen she could see Olive beavering away at the stove. The kettle was boiling and Sally thought she could smell toast.

‘Ah, you’re up,’ said Olive, standing at the stove, her hair covered with a turbaned scarf beneath which was a head full of pin curls. ‘I didn’t want to call you as you were so exhausted yesterday.’

‘Yesterday?’ Sally’s eyes widened, especially when she realised she had slept right through in her uniform. ‘I thought I’d only dozed off for a moment or two.’

‘That’s what happens when you go for nights on end without rest – your body shuts down, you can’t concentrate, you can’t cope with everyday things.’

‘I feel awful,’ Sally said, putting her hand to her aching head, ‘and I certainly don’t feel as if I’ve had a full night’s sleep.’

‘Your body will tell you what you need, not the clock,’ Olive smiled, as Sally sat at the table and she handed her a cup of hot tea. ‘You must be starving. You didn’t eat yesterday, and when I went up to check you were well away. I did cover you up but …’

‘The cover must have slipped off during the night. I woke up dithering.’

‘You must have slipped into a very heavy sleep not to feel that cold last night. The fog seemed to seep through every crack. I went around stuffing newspaper under the doors and around the windows. It looks like we’ll have a hard winter this year.’

‘It’s been a hard winter every year since this war began, and with rationing on there’s nothing you can buy to cheer it up.’

‘Here, we’ll have none of that defeatist talk. Drink your tea and get some toast down you, Sal. It’ll make you feel much better.’

‘Is it all right if I have a bath after breakfast, Olive?’ Sally asked, feeling grubby after sleeping in her clothes all night.

‘Of course it is. There should still be enough hot water – the fire was going all day yesterday.’ Although how long that was going to carry on for Olive didn’t know, as the news came through that coal was at its lowest level since the beginning of the war.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t be in the bath that long; it’s too cold and we’re only supposed to use three inches of water. I’ll be more cold than hot!’ Sally began to feel a bit better as the hot tea worked its magic and the toast made her realise she hadn’t eaten for nearly two days.

‘Are you at the hospital today?’ Olive asked, taking her seat opposite Sally.

‘No, I’m on duty tonight,’ she sighed. ‘You are so good, looking after Alice for me. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Olive.’

‘That’s as maybe, Sally, but the raids have been gradually increasing again of late. Don’t you think it would be safer if Alice was evacuated to the countryside?’ ‘I’m sure it would be, Olive, but I can’t bear the thought of her being so far away, being brought up by strangers – what if they didn’t look after her properly? She’s been through so much already.’ And what would Callum say about his only sister’s daughter being farmed out to strangers?

‘Callum, above any of us, knows the dangers of another raid,’ Olive said gently, reading Sally’s thoughts and knowing it was difficult for Sally to let her half-sister go after losing her own mother and father. ‘Alice will be safer away from here. She was lucky before – she might not be next time.’

The dirty hearth, full of grey, fallen ash that had not been brushed away was the first thing that caught Agnes’s attention on entering the still richly furnished room her father had once occupied, and the shock of seeing the room in such filthy disarray was evident in her low gasp. It was almost the same sound as the one she made on her first visit, but for very different reasons. She was sure her father would not have allowed this room, the one he had occupied with her mother all those years ago, to fall into such a disgusting state of grubby disorder.

‘You must be out of your tiny mind if you think I ’ave no rights to this farm,’ Darnley, her father’s old retainer, said when Agnes told him she had come to take over. ‘You city folk can get proof of anything at any time – I knows the drill,’ he said, scratching the bristles on his chin, ‘and you can’t fool me. I’ve lived in the country all my life; you can’t just walk in ’ere an’ take over. It don’t work like that.’ Agnes had to lean forward and concentrate to understand Old Darnley’s broad accent.

Beside him, his son leaned on his crutches, his eyes menacing as they bore into her, missing nothing in her demeanour.

‘I told you, Mr Darnley,’ Agnes replied, shifting nervously now, ‘I have come to work on the farm – I have a right—’

‘Every Tom, Dick and Henrietta thinks they’ve got a right to work on a farm these days, my girl, but I’s got to tell you – I’ll be the judge of whether you stay or not.’

The highly polished furniture was covered in a veneer of dust and the rich oxblood colour of the high-winged chair, where her father had sat, was now hidden beneath a patina of grime. The dull grate, which had looked welcoming before – when the high-banked fireplace had been alive with brilliant flames – was now dying.

She had once thought of it as the kind of room a gentleman would use, but now it looked like it was used for the pigs to live in. The room wasn’t warm but it did feel as if it was closing in on her somehow.

‘I’ll be outside if you need me,’ said young Darnley, taking himself and his scowling face out of her sight.

‘Do you mind if I open the window?’ Agnes said, forcing the small bay windows outward. Darnley, whose nose almost met his chin and whose legs were so bowed they could not stop a pig on the run, gave a low grunt as he shuffled over to the mantelshelf, where he took a pipe from the rack and began to fill it with tobacco from the pouch in his waistcoat pocket. Agnes wondered if the pipe had belonged to her father.

‘You’ll mind your manners,’ Darnley said in a low growl, ‘War Ag. or no!’ He obviously was still thinking she had come from London, and the Ministry of Agriculture and Food, which had been set up just before the war to ensure that prices and produce were regulated and that supplies could be guaranteed. Darnley was getting riled now, Agnes could tell. By the looks of it he didn’t like the authorities coming around poking their noses in. She wondered why. But no matter how annoyed he got she was going to take her place at her father’s farm whether he liked it or not!

He pulled at the muffler wrapped around his throat. Agnes realised that it had probably seen better days – in fact the whole place looked like that. Agnes knew he hadn’t recognised her, and as he lit the pipe, his head bent and his eyes suspiciously raised to meet hers, he looked every inch like a man who was in charge and meant to make that clear.

He had been away when she’d arrived, but his son had not hesitated to let her know that she would be on the train to London as soon as his father got back.

‘Is there something I can ’elp you with?’ Darnley asked as he took her father’s seat by the fire. Agnes felt the sudden rise of silent outrage, especially when he added, ‘I’s a busy man an’ ’ave a lot to do, so tell me what you want and make it fast.’

‘I don’t think I can
make it fast
, Mr Darnley,’ said Agnes, ‘but first of all I would like to know who is running this place now.’

‘You’re from the War Ag., you should know who runs it!’ Darnley’s reply confirmed Agnes’s suspicions. ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Agnes said firmly. ‘Who runs this place?’

‘Why, my younger son do, o’ course. I’m too old … and the other son’s a war hero, home to rehuperate after ’avin’ his big toe blown off in a grenade attac—’

‘Old man!’ Young Darnley’s voice was so loud it stopped his father in the midst of his satisfied explanation, and Agnes turned to see him standing in the doorway. ‘You know what they say about careless talk … think on. And the word you are lookin’ for, Da, is “recuperate” – not “rehuperate”!’ Then, turning to Agnes, he said pleasantly, ‘Is there anything we can do to help you, miss?’ Agnes was surprised by his sudden change of tone towards her.

‘I thought you were from the army,’ said young Darnley, which, Agnes surmised, was the reason he was being polite now. He had suspected she might be ‘official’ and now he thought she had come for a job! But she wasn’t going to let him off that easily.

‘Can you tell me if there is running water?’ Agnes said, ignoring the younger man now.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Darnley swiftly got up from the chair, his expression outraged. ‘I said—’

‘I ’eard what you said … What I want to know is, what ’as it got ta do with you? You can’t come ’ere and start throwing your weight about.’

‘Oh, yes, I can, Mr Darnley,’ Agnes said with a satisfied nod of her head, ‘and I’ve got the papers to prove it. Now, tell me, who is in charge around here?’

‘That would be me, miss.’ A dark-haired man came into the room wearing the farmer’s garb of corduroy trousers, shirt, jacket and muffler, and addressed Darnley directly. ‘I’ll deal with this now.’

For a moment, Agnes didn’t say a word, surmising that this was Darnley’s younger son. He looked fit and active, very much like the one who met her at the gate yesterday, although he didn’t seem as abrupt as the one on crutches. A sudden thought struck Agnes: the surly one would be unfit for military service and so would old Darnley, who, in Agnes’s estimation, was well into his seventies, so that left this man.

‘My name is Jake … Jake Darnley, and I have been running this farm since Mr Weybridge died … He had no other relatives, you see.’

Agnes nodded but said nothing. She didn’t recall seeing Jake Darnley the last time she was here, so he may have been away fighting then.

‘You will find everything you need in the drawer of his bureau over there. All the records have been kept up to date.’ His tone was guarded as he looked towards the older man, Agnes noticed, and this alone told her that he thought she was ‘official’.

Agnes could see that he was nervous but trying not to show it.

‘How long have you been running the farm for Mr Weybridge?’ She watched him carefully and saw the colour rise to his throat.

‘Oh, I’ve looked after it for years. Mr Weybridge couldn’t do without me.’

Agnes knew he was lying. She did not recall her father mentioning anything about Jake Darnley; she remembered her father telling her that old man Darnley ran the farm for him … So, to her way of thinking, that could only mean this Jake was a conscientious objector, or he was ducking out of military service. In which case, he was in for a shock.

‘Well, I’m afraid that is no longer the case, Mr Darnley, because, you see, I own this place now.’ Agnes’s words had the desired effect. Old Darnley turned before reaching the door, his face wreathed in disbelief.

‘Mr Weybridge didn’t have no successors – he didn’t have no offspring neither,’ he said darkly.

Agnes gave a slow smile but the look in her eyes held no mirth.

‘I can assure you he did, Mr Darnley, and that person is me.’ She took a deep breath, only just holding her nerve. ‘Now, if you would be so kind, I would be grateful if you would gather the staff, including the Italian labourer and the land girls, and ask them if they would all come in here in half an hour.’ Agnes could not ignore the suspicious hostility of old Darnley’s slow, unwavering glare, but she glared right back. She knew this wasn’t going to be easy: she would be seen as an upstart who knew nothing.

‘Would you like to see the proof, gentlemen?’ The last word was said in a tone no different from the rest; she had not come here to make enemies, and she knew she would need all the help she could get. However, she had every intention of claiming her rightful place on this farm and not spending another night in a freezing barn, as she had done last night.

‘There ain’t no proof,’ said old Darnley belligerently. ‘Mr Weybridge were a widower, his wife died before I came ’ere an’ there weren’t no missus ’ere after that.’

‘He was a very unlucky man in the marriage department, I’ll grant you,’ Agnes said drily. Her days of being meek little Agnes were over. Today, she was queen of all she surveyed and it gave her a feeling that was so powerful, she felt able to tell them the truth now.

‘My father had a child with his second wife – my mother,’ Agnes said slowly, in case they didn’t get it the first time, ‘who, unfortunately died in childbirth … Mr Weybridge was unable, or unwilling, to bring me up, and I was sent away.’

‘I don’t believe you! You’re lying,’ Jake Darnley burst out, and Agnes could see the naked panic in his eyes. ‘I run this farm now – tell her, Da! You said I could stay here an’ look after the farm!’ Suddenly, he didn’t look quite as commanding as he had done moments earlier. It seemed to her that his authoritative air must have been well practised for officialdom, because now he didn’t seem sure of anything.

‘Quiet, boy! Hold your tongue!’ Old Darnley glowered at his son and a light went on in Agnes’s head. Boy? Looking closely at him, she could see he was a big, strong lad … and he
was
a lad. At first sight he would be mistaken for an able-bodied man, but on closer scrutiny …

‘How old are you, Jake?’

‘Never you mind ’ow old ’e is. We’re not ’ere to talk about ’im.’

Agnes concluded now that it was old Darnley who was the brains behind the outfit here. One son coming home injured from the war was bad enough, she thought; he wouldn’t want to send another one to the same fate. And as farmhands were not exempt from military service – only the farmers themselves were excused – they must have squared it between them to make Jake the farm boss, even if it was only for official purposes.

Taking her birth certificate and the deeds to the farm from her handbag, she held them out towards old Darnley, who snatched them from her now and, squinting his eyes to get a better look in the November gloom, he read the authorised documents that proved who she was.

‘Well, I can’t see as ’ow we can argue with these,’ old Darnley said reluctantly, handing the papers back.

Agnes sighed with relief, although she knew he didn’t have a leg to stand on. When she had finished putting the papers in her bag she noticed a palpable silence hung around the room like a wet blanket and she realised she no longer cared what they would make of her coming here and giving orders. This was her home. This was her new beginning.

‘It don’t mean to say I ’ave ter be ’appy about it, though,’ Darnley said over his shoulder as he shuffled out of the room.