The Fleethaven Trilogy (100 page)
Peggy retired from her job in Lincoln and came to live
in her own rooms in the Grange, becoming self-appointed
nanny to Ella’s growing family, and Philip Trent was a
regular and frequent visitor, bringing his mother, too,
whenever her failing health permitted.
In the winter of 1975, Jonathan Godfrey died peacefully
in his sleep and four weeks later, losing the will to live
without him, Esther faded, withered and died. At her
bedside, Beth Eland sat holding her hand until the end.
They’re all buried in the small churchyard now: Esther
and Jonathan, alongside their beloved Kate; Beth beside
her husband, Robert Eland; and only a few feet away from
them all, lies Matthew Hilton.
Danny and Rosie still live at Rookery Farm, although
now, Danny’s working day is more in the capacity of
foreman.
And Brumbys’ Farm? Of course, it now belongs to Ella
and forms part of the land which Rob and she farm
together. But the house lies empty, waiting to love and be
loved once more.
Though it is not entirely forgotten, for on summer days
Ella will walk down the lane, over the stile and across the
fields to squeeze through the hole in the hedge. She
wanders through the empty rooms, pauses in a shaft of
dusty sunlight, and hearing ghostly voices from the past,
whispers in reply, ‘I’m here, Grannie, I’m still here.’
Although ‘Suddaby’ airfield is fictitious, I would like to acknowledge that the Lincolnshire Aviation Heritage Centre at East Kirkby, owned by Fred and Harold Panton, has been a valuable source of information. The fully restored Control Tower and the magnificent Lancaster B Mk VII NX611 were an inspiration.
My very special thanks to Cyril Barker, of Skegness, a Dunkirk veteran, who relived painful memories of that time in order to help me in my research.
I am also deeply indebted to Mrs Fiona Ryan, of Skegness, for the loan of her personal notebooks and papers written during her service as a WAAF.
My sincere gratitude to Mrs Betty Watson, of Skegness, an ex-WAAF, not only for sharing her memories with me but also for her wonderful help in reading through the final typescript.
And last – but never least – my love and thanks to all my family and friends especially those who read the novel in the early stages – my sister and her husband, Robena and Fred Hill; Pauline Griggs; Linda and Terry Allaway; and my daughter, Zoë, who again helped with the final draft.
M. D.
Skegness, 1995
Reap the Harvest
PAN BOOKS
Part One
One
LINCOLNSHIRE, JANUARY 1953
‘So this is ya bastard.’
Ella Hilton scowled at the old woman standing in the
doorway, hands on hips, looking down at her. Beside her,
she heard her mother draw in a deep breath and the hand,
resting on her shoulder, stiffened as Kate snapped back,
‘Well, if that’s the way you greet your granddaughter the
first time you meet her, Mam, we’ll turn right round and
be off back the way we came.’
Shocked, Ella gaped up at her mother; Kate Hilton
rarely lost her temper, but she was angry now.
The woman still stood there, barring their way into the
house. ‘I told you ten years ago I didn’t want you here, or
ya bastard, and I still don’t. Nothing’s changed.’
The young girl clenched her fists. Even at ten years old,
Ella knew what the name meant; she had heard it often
enough shouted after her in the playground.
‘Oh I see,’ Kate was saying. ‘So I can’t even come back
for my grandad’s funeral? Well, Mam, no one’s going to
stop me; not even you. We’ll stay at Rookery Farm . . .’
‘With the Elands? You’ll do no such thing. I’ll not have
you staying there – with them.’
Ella felt the anger drain out of her mother now as Kate
said, sadly, ‘The family feud still going on, is it? Can’t you
ever forget or forgive anyone, Mam?’
With a sniff, the older woman turned away. Sighing,
her mother gave Ella a gentle push, but the girl held on to the door frame, refusing to enter. ‘No, Mum,’ she whispered.
‘Let’s go home. I don’t like it here and . . .’ Her
wide eyes followed the rigid back of the woman and the
unspoken words hung in the air, ‘. . . and I don’t like her.’
Kate, once more the gentle mother Ella knew, said, ‘It’s
all right. Come along,’ and she urged the reluctant child
through the back scullery and into the warm kitchen of the
farmhouse.
‘Sit in the chair near the range, Ella, and warm your
hands. Poor child’s perished,’ Kate explained. ‘The train
was freezing. I thought me dad might have met us at the
station.’
The woman thumped her rolling pin down on to the
pastry. ‘Ya dad’s too busy with the ploughing to be meeting
trains.’
Ella perched herself on the wooden seat of the spindly
chair at one side of the huge black range. Logs crackled in
the grate and the kettle on the hob gently puffed steam
from its spout. The warmth hit her cold cheeks, making
them burn. Flexing her white fingers, she stretched out her
hands towards the glow. Tiredness swept over her in
waves; like the waves she had heard distantly as they had
walked along the lonely lane following the line of sand-dunes
all the way from the town to this remote farmhouse.
They had walked for miles, it seemed to Ella, whose
legs had begun to grow tired. ‘Can’t we wait for a bus,
Mum?’
Kate had smiled. ‘You’d wait a long time, love. They
don’t come out this far.’
‘No buses!’ the girl had exclaimed, her skipping stilled
for a horrified moment. To their right the fields, brown
and flat, stretched westwards as far as the distant horizon
with only a lonely farm, or a line of trees here and there,
to break the monotony.
Then Ella was skipping again, taking little running
jumps and stretching her neck, trying to see over the sand-dunes.
‘Where’s the sea, Mum? You said we were coming
to the seaside. I’ve never seen the sea.’
‘Beyond the dunes and across the marsh, love,’ Kate
had answered, waving her hand absently to the left. ‘You
can go and look at it later.’
Now, sitting in the kitchen that must once have been
her mother’s home, Ella looked about her at the peg rug
on the hearth, the brick walls painted red, the pots and
pans lining the shelves and a ham hanging from a hook in
the ceiling. Then her gaze came back to the woman
standing behind the scrubbed table peeling and coring
apples and laying the slices in a pastry-lined, circular tin.
Ella studied her. So this woman, who had called her
that dreadful name, was her grandmother.
Although old in the girl’s eyes, Esther Godfrey’s hair
was thick and still a luxuriant auburn colour though there
were strands of grey at her temples. It was piled high on
the top of her head and two combs thrust into its thickness
held it in place. Only the curls on her forehead and
escaping tendrils softened the severe style. Her skin, though
tanned through working outside in all weathers, was
smooth and remarkably unlined for a grandmother. The
woman’s green eyes glanced up briefly and for a moment
met Ella’s blue gaze. ‘Dun’t stare, Missy. It’s rude. And
stop kicking ya Grandpa’s chair; ya’ll scratch it.’
Unflinching, Ella glared back, deliberately widening her
eyes but she stopped swinging her legs; not in obedience
but because it was Grandpa Godfrey’s chair. Ella loved her
Grandpa Godfrey. He visited them in Lincoln three or four
times a year and had done so for as long as Ella could
remember, but her grandmother had never once come with
him. Ella had known about her, of course; had listened as Kate always asked, ‘How’s me Mam?’ but the young girl
knew too that her mother and her grandmother had
quarrelled years ago. Now, today, she had witnessed for
herself the depth of bitterness between them. Ella put her
head on one side and stared at Esther Godfrey, pondering
what could possibly have caused a quarrel so dreadful that
a mother did not ever want to see her daughter? The girl’s
gaze flickered towards Kate and for one awful moment
Ella imagined how devastated she would feel if, for some
reason, she were never to see her own mother again.
Her grandmother’s voice interrupted her wandering
thoughts. ‘Wipe ya chin, Missy. Ya’ve got summat on ya
face. Just here . . .’ The woman touched her own cheek,
leaving a dab of flour.
Ella stuck out her chin, thrusting the tiny port-wine
stain on her left jawline towards the woman. ‘It’s a
birthmark. I can’t rub it off.’
Kate’s voice came softly. ‘Don’t you remember, Mam?’
For a moment the older woman looked startled and
stared at Kate, her mouth slightly open. She glanced back,
just once, at Ella and then dropped her gaze.
‘Can I mash a pot of tea, Mam?’ Kate said, as if trying
to change the subject. ‘I’m parched. We’ve had nothing
since leaving Lincoln.’
Esther’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. ‘Ya know where
everything is,’ she said, neither granting permission nor
withholding it.
‘Is he – is he still here?’ Kate asked as she moved
between the shelves along one wall and the table, laying
cups and saucers and spooning tea into the brown pot.
Esther nodded and jerked her head towards a door leading
out of the kitchen further into the house.
‘In his room,’ was her only reply.
Seeing Kate move towards the door, Ella jumped up.
‘No, love, you stay here . . .’
‘I’m coming with you . . .’ she began.
‘Do as ya mother tells ya,’ the older woman snapped,
but Ella took no notice and moved towards her mother.
‘It’s all right, Mam,’ Kate said swiftly. ‘She can come
with me.’
‘Lid’s off,’ Esther said bluntly, mystifying the young girl
even more. Ella watched her mother’s eyes widen and saw
her swallow hard, hesitating for a moment, but then she
took Ella’s hand, opened the door and together they
stepped out of the kitchen and into a living room.
Heavy blue velvet curtains shut out most of the light
and Ella had only a shadowy impression of dark, solid
furniture and the gleam of fleshy green leaves on a plant
standing in a blue and white pot on the plush-clothed
table. Not wanting to disturb the solemn tick of the
grandfather clock in one corner, the girl found herself tiptoeing
across the room and into the small hall beyond.
Immediately before them was another door, but Kate
paused, her hand on the knob, and looked down again at
Ella. ‘You wait here love, just a minute ’til I see how he
looks.’
Her mother opened the door and disappeared into the
room leaving Ella standing in the cold, dingy hall. She
stood first on one foot then on the other. The minutes
passed and Ella became impatient. She pressed her ear to
the door but she couldn’t hear anything. Holding her
breath, Ella slowly pushed the door open.
In the centre of the room was a black iron bedstead
with a black and white striped mattress. There were no
bedclothes on the bed and on top of the bare mattress lay
a coffin with brass handles. The lid stood on its end against
the wall and her mother was leaning over the coffin almost
as if she were talking to someone.
Ella bit her lip, her whispered ‘Mum!’ echoing in the
silent room. When Kate half-turned round, Ella saw, with
a shock, that there were tears in her eyes. Although Kate
brushed them away quickly with the back of her hand, the
child-like gesture disconcerted the young girl. Ella tiptoed
into the room. ‘What’s the matter, Mum?’ she whispered.
Her mother put out her arm to draw her closer. ‘Don’t
be frightened, love. He looks real peaceful.’
‘Let me see.’
‘I don’t think . . .’ Kate began.
