War Orphans (29 page)

Amelia nodded in agreement. ‘That might well be true. Pierre loves France and I hope he still loves Adele, though I doubt it. They've grown apart.' Amelia clasped her hands in front of her, her chin held aloft. ‘Sorry, my dear, but I believe that marriage should be for life.'

There was little left to say. Amelia asked if Sally would like more tea. A biscuit perhaps?

She declined.

On the walk home she thought about the letter from Pierre she had lovingly folded between the pages of her diary, a letter waiting for a reply.

The moment she got back she would throw it into the fire or tear it into pieces. Pierre did not deserve any kind of response. He'd lied to her by his failure to disclose the truth of his marriage.

Back home she took the letter from inside the diary meaning to take it downstairs and throw it into the fire. She would very likely have done so if she hadn't been tempted to read it one more time.

Her gaze flew over the words, her heart fluttering in exactly the same way it had when she'd first read it.

Her eyes cloudy with unshed tears, her chin firm with resolve, she folded the letter in three parts passing it from one hand to another as she confronted her fears and her thoughts.

The bitter taste of his betrayal remained.

Why hadn't he told her the truth? Surely he must have realised that at some point his aunt would tell her?

Anger and despair surfaced in equal measure along with the most beguiling of his features, the way his brandy-coloured hair curled around the nape of his neck, the way creases appeared around his eyes when he smiled, the way his mouth moved when he spoke, the words delivered in a slight accent that made her spine tingle.

How could he have asked her to marry him when he was married already?

Yet he'd been so adamant. There had to be a genuine reason he had not told her the truth.
You're deluding yourself
, said a small voice in her head.

Another small voice protested equally vehemently.
No! I saw no deceit in him, no sign that he was lying. Now why would I do that?

The truth exploded into her mind in letters three feet high.
Because you love him
.

On hearing the back door open and close, she returned the letter to her diary and went downstairs. She would decide whether or not to reply to Pierre later. She needed time to think.

Her father was sprawled on a kitchen chair, his legs straight out in front of him. He was still wearing the boots he wore when he was gardening. His head rested against the chair back as he did when he was dozing, but on this occasion his eyes were wide open and dark with concern.

She knew he was thinking about Joanna and the dog.

‘Have they found her?'

‘No. Nobody knows where she's gone. The police have checked if there are any relatives, but it seems not. Her father was an only child and her stepmother's background is dubious to say the least. Not that she wants her found.' He looked at his daughter. ‘I think the only reason she went to the police was because she'd made the mistake of coming in to see you first. She'd truly believed that Joanna had gone into school as usual. It must have come as quite a shock when you told her she hadn't showed up.'

‘I told her to contact the police. You think that was a mistake?'

He shook his head, his callused hands resting in his lap. ‘You did the right thing. My opinion is that she wouldn't have got them involved if you hadn't suggested it. She'd have been quite happy to live her life without Joanna around, no matter what had happened to her.'

A heavy sadness washed over Sally as she sank onto a kitchen chair. Resting her elbows on the table, she cupped her face in her hands.

Today had been memorable, though not for the right reasons. On the one hand a sadly neglected child had run away from home. On the other hand she had found out that the man she loved was already married. Pierre was in France and Joanna goodness knows where. A letter to Pierre might shed some light on the reasons why he had asked her to marry him without him being free to marry her. But what about Joanna? Who could possibly know where she might have gone?

The country bus was single decker and the man who was driving also took the money and gave out tickets.

Joanna had eyed him nervously, Harry snuggling close to her legs, looking up at her imploringly.

‘Twopence for you. Same for the dog. Anyone meeting you the other end?'

Joanna shook her head. ‘No. Not at the bus stop anyway,' she said, instantly realising her mistake. The last thing she wanted was for the driver to question the fact that at the end of the journey she would get off the bus alone.

The driver was still regarding her with a puzzled expression. ‘Where you off to, then?'

Joanna swallowed her nervousness and proceeded to lie.

‘I'm going to stay with my grandmother. Her legs are bad so she can't come to the bus,' she added, a picture of Mrs Allen and her bad legs springing to mind.

The driver looked from her to Harry who was wagging his tail happily, his big brown eyes fixed on the driver's face.

‘Oh well. At least you've got a bit of jolly company,' he said to her.

At the end of the journey the bus stayed where it was. Joanna walked off past the small post office that Paul had mentioned in his stories.

A woman came out from the village store and began cleaning the windows, stopping when she saw Joanna and her dog. ‘Afternoon, young lady. Out for an afternoon walk?'

‘Yes. I'm going to visit my grandmother.'

When it seemed as though the woman was about to ask more searching questions, Joanna quickened her pace.

A man wearing a flat cap, his shirtsleeves rolled up, a waistcoat and trousers tied about with string at the knees, alighted from a farm wagon. He said nothing, but merely glanced in her direction before disappearing inside the post office.

Joanna's heart had raced when challenged by the bus driver and the woman. Thankfully the man had only glanced at her, too committed to entering the shop and buying something.

The road was long and flat. The rank of terraced cottages, the post office and the village store were soon left behind. Just a few buildings, cottages and narrow lanes dissected the meadows where cows and sheep grazed. The day was fine enough but tonight the temperature would drop.

Suppressing a shiver, Joanna knew she had to find somewhere to shelter. She had to find the place Paul had slept at night after fishing all day.

Daylight was fading and it was getting cold by the time she came to the double gates Paul had described to her.

Joanna shivered. It was far colder than she'd expected it to be and she wished she'd grabbed the hat and scarf Mrs Allen had knitted her.

The double gates were made of corrugated iron, the pair of them held together with a rusty chain. He'd assured her it was never locked. All she had to do was walk over tumps of dried grass to get to them.

Harry was off his lead. He sniffed around quite happily while she attempted to push open the gates, the chain hanging loosely, the gates making a squealing sound as she pushed them open.

The grass field sloping down to the river was just as Paul had described it.

‘Me and Charlie caught some really big fish along there,' he'd told her excitedly.

Joanna looked around across the river to where the bare branches of trees seemed to be scratching the sky. Daylight was fading and a frosty moon shimmered in an indigo sky surrounded by ragged clouds that also seemed touched with silver.

The old barn was exactly where Paul had told her, its old stonework and the bit of roof still remaining covered with ivy.

Loneliness suddenly overwhelmed her. There was not another human being in sight.

‘Harry?'

Her heart seemed to stop. Without Harry, the reason for her doing this, there was no point in running away.

‘Harry!' she called again, this time more urgently than before.

A sound of lapping came from where the river swirled against the adjacent bank.

Joanna's heart stopped racing. Harry was merely slaking his thirst.

The barn was very dark. Enough daylight remained for her to see where straw bales had been piled in the far corner.

Feeling her way over tumbled straw, she eased herself into a snug gap between walls made of bales. Harry followed her in, sniffing and snuffling at the straw all the way.

Once settled down on the straw, she groped in her satchel for the pieces of rabbit she'd brought with her. Harry wolfed them down while she nibbled her way through some bread and cheese. It wasn't much but would keep her going. Paul had told her there were fish here. Perhaps she could catch one for their next meal, though she'd never fished in her life.

Cold and tired, she snuggled down against Harry's warm body. To keep them extra warm she pulled some of the loose straw over them.

The day had been long and although she thought she had planned her escape well, she still didn't have any real idea of where to go.

It was late morning when she finally woke up. Harry was eating the last of his food. She got out a last piece of pie from Mrs Allen.

The day was spent ambling alongside the river. Joanna considered going back to the shop she had passed the day before, but she decided to wait. Something might turn up and there was still the prospect of fishing or catching a rabbit. She'd also had the foresight to bring a box of matches. She might be able to cook something and perhaps pick apples. There were bound to be some left somewhere.

Tonight she would sleep and consider her options in the morning.

In the morning a weak sun had broken through the sky turning it a dirty lemon colour. Ducks quacked on the river, welcoming the morning mist that rose like steam into their watery world.

Her arm wrapped around Harry's neck and snuggled close to his side, Joanna slept on.

Harry lifted his head. He had heard the ducks but was presently staring at the gates through which they had entered the field.

His nose quivered and his whole body stiffened, his gaze fixed on the direction from where the sound was coming.

Beyond the barn a tractor trundled its way through the iron gates. Its driver, Jim Sanderson, had farmed the meadows bordering the River Avon for years. His father had done the same before him and his father before that. He was lean and wiry, his weathered complexion etched with lines. Tired eyes peered out from beneath a flat cap and two days of hair growth bristled on his chin. In peacetime he had taken a shave each day. Nowadays he just didn't have the time.

A number of farm labourers had ditched working the land in favour of joining the armed forces. Some had been conscripted, leaving Jim with a heavier workload than he would normally have.

A few more days and the land girls he'd been allocated would put in an appearance. He'd held out against having them, arguing that women weren't as tough as men and wouldn't pull their weight. He'd had to reconsider once he was down to just two male labourers and they were all working from dawn to dusk, grumbling that the work was hard and if they'd been young enough they would be off fighting.

The trailer he was pulling behind the tractor was piled high with hay that he intended to store alongside the straw already in the barn. The cold depths of winter, when he intended moving cattle into the riverside field, were not that far away. At least here the cattle would have a straw bed and shelter if the weather did get bad. They'd also have hay if it should snow and they couldn't get to the grass.

By shunting the tractor backwards and forwards, he got the trailer lined up outside the barn entrance, making it easier to offload.

Satisfied he'd done that, he switched off the engine and clambered down.

The little girl stared at him, her arms around the neck of what looked to be a golden cocker spaniel.

Surprised, Jim nudged his cap with two fingers sending it further back on his head. ‘Well I never! Now what might you be doing 'ere?'

The little girl looked terrified. A low growl rumbled in the dog's throat.

Jim smiled. He rather liked dogs and from what he could see he had indeed been right about the breed. An English cocker, once trained, was a very good gun dog.

‘All right, buster,' he said addressing Harry. ‘No need to get worried. I'm not going to hurt anybody.'

Something about his amiable smile and the way he spoke seemed to get through to the young dog. Harry stopped growling and eyed the farmer with interest.

Jim reached down and patted his head. ‘Now,' he said, turning to Joanna, ‘have you had any breakfast?'

Joanna shook her head. Running away was all very well, but the night had been cold and the little food she'd brought with her was already gone.

‘Well, just you wait till I unhitch this trailer and we'll go get some. Bacon and eggs all right with you?'

Joanna, her stomach gurgling at the prospect of a proper cooked breakfast, something she hadn't enjoyed for a very long time, nodded enthusiastically.

For the first time in her life – and in Harry's for that matter – she rode on a tractor, cramped in front and sitting on the farmer's knees.

Harry balanced on a ledge to the side of the seat. His ears blew in the breeze as they trundled along the road, but the breakfast at the other end was worth any prior discomfort.

Meg Sanderson, Jim's wife, raised her eyebrows and put her hands on her ample hips when she saw her husband arrive back home early and with passengers on board.

Before going inside, Jim whispered in his wife's ear. Her pink face was merry enough but lit up even more when she smiled. She nodded that she understood.

‘Leave it with me,' she said to him softly. ‘You go and do what you have to do. Now,' she said, turning to Joanna. ‘What's your name?'

‘Joanna Ryan.'

‘And what about him? What's his name?'

‘He's Harry. We got lost.'