Home Sweet Home (25 page)

One person after another asked her about Charlie.

‘Is he better now? Whooping cough, was it?'

‘No. It's diphtheria,' said Frances.

The women who asked were only being kind, but they couldn't help mentioning the ailments their own children had suffered from.

‘Poor little mite. My Tommy had whooping cough back in January and for a while it was touch and go, but he pulled through. A right little fighter he is, and I wouldn't mind betting your Charlie's a fighter too.'

Frances paused only long enough to thank them and to explain that, no, she was not catching the bus. ‘I'm just out for a walk.'

She was met with looks of disbelief. What was it about country people that they found it strange for people to just be out for a walk? Or was it purely her imagination that they thought it odd?

On glancing over her shoulder, she saw the way heads were drawn together while their eyes followed her progress. Yes. They thought her actions odd.

It might have been a clear walk from then on if she hadn't bumped into Mrs Martin coming the other way.

‘Heard about your Charlie,' said Mrs Martin, who for some reason had a sheep on a lead and a hen tucked beneath her arm. ‘Give your uncle Stan my best regards. T'would be a right shame if anything happened to little Charlie, bearing in mind he's got no dad and no mother either.'

Frances was desperate to ask why Mrs Martin had a sheep on a lead and a hen tucked beneath her arm, but the explanation came without her needing to ask.

‘I'm just taking them out for an airing. Hens lay better if they have a change of scene now and again. As for Mavis here, well, she likes a nice walk too.

‘I never knew that.'

‘Well, you do now. Remember to give your uncle all the best for the little'un.'

Frances said that she would.

Two women talking either side of a hedge dividing their cottages nodded in her direction and asked after Charlie.

Frances told them he was as well as could be expected and soldiered on before they could ask her what she was up to.

Too engrossed in their previous conversation, they didn't bother.

Although Frances appreciated that they were all only being kind, her mission was to get to the top of the lane, climb over the gate and head for the oak tree.

The last person she'd expected to see was Mrs Powell. Miriam's mother was clothed in her usual black garb, her eyes like chips of coal in her washed-out face. Even at this distance – about fifty yards – Frances felt her legs go weak.

Frances crossed the road. She would cross back further along before heading up the lane to the field where a lone oak tree grew like a church spire in a flat desert.

To her astonishment, Mrs Powell crossed the road too. The woman wanted a confrontation! They were on a collision course!

Frances felt her heart race. A while back, at the time when baby Charlie had gone missing and been found with Miriam Powell, she'd cheeked Mrs Powell. Charlie had been found with Mrs Powell's daughter, Miriam, in a den built and added to by generations of children down on California Farm.

It was said at the time that Miriam was ill, and there were rumours she'd given birth to a child. Nobody was quite sure who the father was, though suspicion had fallen on a young Methodist minister who had promptly disappeared from the village.

Taking a deep breath, Frances prepared herself for what was to come. From a distance, it appeared that Mrs Powell had no features except for her coal-black eyes. Only on getting closer did her nose become more discernible, pointed and sharp as a bird about to attack a worm.

She hadn't been in Mrs Powell's shop with its dingy lighting and dusty shelves since the night the old witch had commented on her mother and her red dress. If there was something needed from Mrs Powell's shop, such as orange juice and cod liver oil for young Charlie, dropped off there by the district nurse, it was Ruby who fetched it.

Mrs Powell didn't dare ban Ruby from the shop. Ruby stuck up for herself and was not the kind of woman to be intimidated. It made Frances smile to think of her standing her ground. If only she was here now.

The distance between them lessened. A few steps and they were face to face, the older woman barring her way forward.

Frances took a deep breath. ‘Whatever you want to say, get it over with. I have things to do.'

Mrs Powell's eyes glittered. ‘I hear the little boy is sick.'

Frances felt as though there was a constriction in her throat, similar to the time she had swallowed a gobstopper almost whole and thought she was dying. ‘What's it to you?' She was purposely sharp.

‘If he recovers, he'll need to eat only soft things: purées, soups and such like. Custard, of course. Rice pudding. I'm expecting some in. Bring your ration book and I'll have some ready for you. Good day.'

Her tone, her words and the way she strutted off were all sharply brusque.

Frances stared after her, feeling a great sense of relief. She'd expected some nasty remarks referring to the fact that Charlie had been born out of wedlock, the son of her dead cousin and a lovely lady whose husband had died at the hands of the Gestapo before the war had even begun.

Taking a deep breath, she hurried on, her footsteps lighter now, unaware that Gertrude Powell had stopped and was watching her walk away. Nor did she see the wicked smile on her thin lips. The smile was not for Frances, not really. Gertrude Powell had a score to settle with Bettina Hicks.

Gertrude walked on along West Street, heading for St Anne's at the bottom of the hill. Just as she'd expected, Stan was there, murmuring something above his wife's grave.

On hearing footsteps, he looked up. ‘Gertrude. How are you?'

He brushed the knees of his corduroys as he got to his feet. He didn't like the woman, but he did pity her, and anyway it cost nothing to be polite.

Gertrude nodded at Sarah's tombstone. ‘I wonder what she would say if she knew you and Bettina spent the odd night together.'

Stan knew she was insinuating they slept together, but controlled his anger. Gertrude wasn't quite all there. Reining in his anger, he delivered his words carefully.

‘Mrs Hicks and I are good friends. We've known each other all our lives, just as we've both known you, Gertrude. So I'll thank you to mind your Ps and Qs.'

A malevolent blackness darkened Gertrude's eyes. ‘You ought to ask her about that nephew of hers. Ask whose son Michael really is.'

She looked confused once the last sentence was out, as though she'd lost her train of thought. She'd been getting more and more like that nowadays.

The blackness faded from her eyes, replaced by the cloudiness of puzzlement.

‘Must go. I've a wedding to plan.'

Stan shook his head as he watched her go. The last wedding Gertrude had planned was her own and that was years ago. Her more lucid moments were getting fewer. Gradually her mind was fading away.

Stan watched her go. Her comment about Mike Dangerfield had puzzled him. He reasoned it was just another of her wandering thoughts.

‘Frances!'

Too wrapped up with thoughts of Mrs Powell, she hadn't seen the khaki-coloured vehicle coming along the road until it swung into the lane, stopping directly in front of her.

‘Honey! Wanna lift?'

Most military policemen patrolled in twos. Why was it Declan O'Malley was always alone when she ran into him? She guessed he planned it that way. He had authority and, despite only recently being promoted to captain, even his superiors admired his common sense and pragmatism. Something lurched inside of her. Here she was off to post a note in an oak tree, and here he was, bold as brass and large as life. What with the note and him, it had to be an omen that she was doing the right thing.

‘Where are you going?'

‘Uncle Sam's got a running order with the farms around here. We need all the eggs we can buy.'

Dimples appeared on Frances's face. ‘I thought the American army had tons of dried egg?'

His smile widened. ‘The colonel likes boiled eggs. As I am sure you are aware, dried eggs are no good for that.'

Frances felt her cheeks warming.

He waved a hand at the vacant seat beside him. ‘Well. Are you gonna get in?'

Frances looked up the length of the lane to the farm gate and the field beyond. A stiff breeze was blowing. The branches of the oak tree standing alone and proudly in the middle of the field barely moved.

Frances bit her lip. Would Declan think her foolish for what she was about to do? Perhaps if she didn't tell him the truth …

‘Charlie's still in hospital.' Her voice was small.

She felt his eyes upon her, but didn't meet his look.

‘Sorry to hear that, babe.'

‘I wouldn't mind a lift.'

‘I think I can manage that.'

‘Will you wait for me here?'

‘If that's what you want.'

Of course it was what she wanted!

She could tell he wanted to know what she was up to, but appreciated him not pressing her further.

‘I won't be long.'

The Jeep was soon behind her, the gate to the field straight ahead.

A length of barbed wire had been wound around the gate catch because its fastening part was missing. The farmer had improvised, the barbed wire keeping it shut and thereby preventing anyone from opening it in the first place.

Used to clambering up apple trees, Frances put her foot on the bottom rung and climbed over in no time.

Once in the field, she ran through the long grass where cattle grazed. Over to her right, a herd of black and white Friesian cows clustered beneath the branches of trees overhanging the hedgerow.

Cows could be unpredictable and she'd always been wary of them. On this occasion, she regarded them with caution, but these were far enough off not to worry her.

The oak tree grew alone, dominating the flat field around it. Moss covered its exposed roots and yellow wild flowers bloomed in bunches where the grass ended and the moss began.

Frances hunkered down, her sharp eyes seeking a small crevice big enough to take her prayer. One place that looked promising proved to be too shallow; if a wind did get up, the piece of paper would be blown away. A hole behind a crooked root turned out to be just right, though not before she'd scraped at the earth with her bare fingers, reusing the loose earth to rebury it.

A shadow fell over her. ‘Might I ask what you're doing?'

Startled, Frances sat back on her haunches and took a deep breath. This was the last thing she wanted. ‘What are you doing here?'

Declan shrugged as he pushed his hands into his pocket.

‘I figured that if you could climb that gate, then so could I, and that there had to be a reason for you climbing it. So I figured I had a reason too.'

‘What reason?'

Yet again he was wearing that amused look that annoyed her, purely because it made her feel as though he knew her too well.

‘I am of a curious disposition. That's why I became a policeman. I like to keep on top of what's going on.'

‘There's nothing going on!'

He shook his head, the languid smile remaining. ‘Oh, I think there is. So how about you tell me about it?'

His manner was exasperating. It was as though he was playing with her, seeing beneath her excuses and enjoying her discomfort. She didn't want him to know what she was doing in case he thought her a fool.

He came down to her level, elbows between bent knees, hands clasped in front of him. His shoulder was close to hers and she could feel his breath on her cheek.

‘Is it a secret?' The way he said it made her feel her age and annoyed her even more.

‘Yes! So don't ask me again. Okay?'

He looked suitably affronted though with the usual amusement. ‘I respect secrets. Anyone who knows me will tell you that. As long as the secret is for a good cause. I've no respect for bad secrets.'

She got to her feet. ‘It's a good secret, but that still doesn't mean I'm going to tell you what it is.'

He got to his feet. ‘Your choice, honey.' He turned his attention towards the corner of the field. ‘I don't suppose cows are anything to do with your secret?'

‘I don't like them, but that's hardly a secret.'

His attention remained fixed on the corner of the field. ‘Those cows look as though they're coming this way.'

Frances shook her head. ‘You're pulling my leg.'

Declan grinned at her and held up his hands. ‘I'm not pulling your leg at all. But, honey, those cows are definitely coming this way. Still, they're only cows and I guess if you don't hurt them, they won't hurt you – will they?'

Frances eyed the cows with alarm and then eyed him. ‘I don't like cows. I got chased by one once.'

‘Did it hurt you?'

‘No. I climbed over a gate.'

He nodded and said that he understood. ‘So you got out of the situation with no harm done.'

‘Not exactly. I fell into … you know … a cow's pancake.'

Declan threw back his head and laughed. ‘A rose by any other name should smell so sweet …'

‘It's not funny!'

‘Yes, it is. We could run?'

Wide-eyed, Frances assessed just how soon the cows would be with them while bearing in mind that she was wearing shoes with heels.

‘No, we couldn't. I couldn't!'

Declan adopted a serious look, tilted his head back and looked up the expanse of the trunk to where fresh green leaves rustled around gnarled and twisted branches.

‘Frances, my dear, you are less of a lady than other women that I know …'

‘I beg your pardon!'

‘No offence. Just what I'm about to suggest would not appeal to a shrinking violet.'

Frances folded her arms and glared at him. Never had she met someone who infuriated her and intrigued her in equal doses. She wanted to shout at him to go, but at the same time wanted him to stay.