Whisper on the Wind (20 page)

‘And?’

‘And last Christmas there was a card for Arnie. Out of the blue it came, and a ten-shilling note inside it. Now why, will you tell me, should she take a sudden interest?’

‘Conscience, perhaps?’

‘Oh, no.’ Mrs Murgatroyd did not offer sugar so Polly stirred her cup then took a sip. ‘That one wants my lad back.’

‘
Her
boy, Miss Appleby.
Her
son, remember. And in law she has a mother’s rights. Mind, Hull is still getting air-raids which doesn’t make it the safest place for a young boy to be, and I’ll allow he’s done well with you; vastly different from the scrawny little beggar they brought to your door. But for all that, I can’t see one reason why she can’t ask for him back. I’m sorry …’

‘I can,’ Polly frowned. ‘Think of a reason, I mean. I don’t think she’s a right and proper person to have the rearing of a young lad.’

‘Oh?’ Mrs Murgatroyd leaned closer, eyebrows raised expectantly.

‘Yes, indeed.’ Polly looked left and right again. ‘It’s all a question of morals, see.’

‘Morals? Oh, my word.’ Mrs Murgatroyd pushed the sugar bowl across the table.

Nodding gravely, Polly returned the letter to the envelope then placed it in her handbag. ‘
Morals,
’ she confirmed, closing her handbag with a snap, leaning across the table until they were head to head. ‘She works nights, you see, and how is a woman who works nights to care for a lad that can find mischief without even looking for it?’

‘You have a point, there. But perhaps Mrs Bagley has some relative who can step in and help?’

‘
Miss
Bagley has not and I know it for a fact; no relation that acknowledges her, it would seem. And I’m talking about
night
work, Mrs Murgatroyd,’ she said tersely, pausing for effect.

‘You mean
that
kind of night work?’ Mrs Murgatroyd’s eyes gleamed. ‘Oh, surely not?’

‘
That
kind, and daytime too, if she can get it, I wouldn’t be at all surprised.’

‘You mean –’ It was Mrs Murgatroyd’s turn to glance uneasily around. ‘You mean –’ Her lips formed the word
prostitution
, though no sound came.

‘On the game, it’s my belief.’

‘For money, Miss Appleby? You’re sure?’

‘As sure as a body can be – else where do ten-shilling notes and five-shilling postal orders come from, all of a sudden?’ And pale pink envelopes and scent and lipstick and peroxide for her hair. ‘
You
tell
me
ma’am.’

‘Oh, deary me. That puts a different light on things. Yes indeed.’ She mouthed the word again. ‘… puts a very different light on it. Now do you have proof, Miss Appleby?’ Proof, like possession, was something it was as well to have. ‘Could you swear, in a court of law –’

‘I’d swear it with my right hand on a stack of Bibles and that’s a fact. But prove it – no. It’s intuition, you see.’

‘Intuition doesn’t stand up in a court of law.’

‘No, but if there was something I could throw at her – something special I could use …’

‘Bluff, you mean?’ Mrs Murgatroyd’s tea had gone cold in the cup, but it was of no account when balanced against prostitution. ‘Blackmail, even?’

‘That as well.’ Anything to keep Arnie with her. ‘But how does a woman like me go about it, will you tell me?’

Mrs Murgatroyd sat bolt upright in her chair and placed her hands together. Then she tilted her chin and said softly, ‘I think this is a matter upon which we should take legal advice. A matter concerning the welfare of an innocent boy is not to be trifled with.’

‘Aaah.’ Legal advice. Exactly what she had been hoping for. Polly closed her eyes with relief.

‘I take it, Miss Appleby, that you haven’t yet replied to Arnold’s mother?’

‘Nay. I was so bothered at first, that I couldn’t have put pen to paper. And then I thought I might ignore it. After all, proof of posting isn’t always proof of receipt, as they do say.’

‘And very wise, I’m sure. It doesn’t hurt to sleep on so serious a matter. And before very long I might well be able to advise you further.’ When she had taken legal advice, that was. When Mr Murgatroyd’s slippers had been set before him and his supper eaten and his pipe filled. ‘Could you leave it with me, then, until Saturday when you call to collect?’

Polly said she could; she would. Polly took her leave of the lady who lived in the bay-windowed house, thanking her profusely. Legal advice. That was what a body needed. Mrs Murgatroyd would come up with something, even if it was little better than bluff and blackmail. That one in Hull wasn’t going to get it all her own way.

Polly straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and made for home. Smiling all the way.

‘Hullo?’ Kath called, kicking off her boots at the door, padding across the kitchen in stockinged feet. ‘They’ve sent me for the drinkings, Mrs Ramsden. They always pick on the littlest.’

‘Goodness. Is it time already?’ Grace looked at the clock. ‘Sit you down for five minutes while the kettle boils and tell me what they’re up to. Got it lit, have they?’

‘It’s well ablaze. They’re having the time of their lives.’

‘Hmm. It’ll be all nice and tidy, once the rubbish is burned, and the wood-ash will do the land good. Mat’s impatient to get on with it. I’m glad to see it all turned over. Used to make my blood run cold, just to think of all those acres. You’ll warn Jonty to watch that fire? It’s a big pile; don’t want it to topple over.’

‘I’ll tell him.’ Kath leaned back in the fireside rocker. ‘And don’t worry – I’m a quick learner.’

‘Threshing day, you mean? Ah well, farms are terrible places for accidents. Can’t be too careful. But tell me about the dances. Roz says you have a fine time.’

‘Well yes, I do, but –’ She stopped, pink-cheeked. ‘But I don’t, what I mean is – I don’t
do
anything.’

‘Of course you don’t,’ Grace laughed. ‘I wasn’t meaning that you do. Why shouldn’t you have a bit of fun? It’s a queer old war and no mistake. Husbands and wives parted, and some of them not long married.’

‘I know. Sometimes I don’t know what I am, really; whether I’m married or single. I feel a bit guilty about going to the dances; daren’t even write to Aunt Min and ask her to send me a frock.’

‘But why ever not? Why shouldn’t you wear something nice? A young woman can’t go into purdah; it isn’t natural. Your aunt ought not –’

‘She isn’t my aunt. I don’t have one. I don’t have anybody, Mrs Ramsden. Didn’t you know that? Didn’t Roz tell you?’

‘Tell me what, lass?’ Grace stopped, teapot in hand.

‘That I’m – oh, you’ll have to know, I suppose.’ Kath looked down at her fingertips. ‘I was brought up in an orphanage, you see.’

‘Oh, deary me. Mum and Dad dead, are they?’ Grace whispered, eyes bright with concern.

‘Yes – oh, I don’t know. They might be alive. What I do know is that they didn’t want me. I was abandoned, you see, when I was two weeks old.’

‘Well, I never! What a thing to do to a bairn! Kath lass, I’m sorry.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘How ever did we get on to such a subject?’

‘I don’t know, Mrs Ramsden, but we had to, sooner or later. It still hurts, you see, not being wanted, not knowing who I am, not knowing anything about myself. Best you should know. There might even be bad blood in me.’

‘Bad
what
? Now see here, Kath Allen, that day I knew Roz was coming to work here was the same day we heard we’d got a landgirl:
you.
And I was real pleased that there’d be two young lasses here at Home Farm. Mat and me never had a daughter, then all of a sudden I get the two of you. Look at me, Kath. I’m trying to say that
I
want you. I feel sorry for your mother, whoever she is, because she gave away a baby that grew up into a beautiful girl with a lovely nature. I’d have been pleased and proud if Jonty had brought you home and told me you were the girl he was set on marrying. Now, does that help put your mind at rest?’ she demanded, breathless.

‘Bless you yes, Mrs Ramsden. Only one thing wrong, though. I’m married, and Jonty wants Roz – but you knew that, didn’t you?’

‘Aye. I’ve known it since he was a little lad no more than six years old. She came to Ridings, Roz did, a bairn of not much more than two, and he loved her then as if she was his little sister. Mrs Fairchild was badly upset over her daughter’s death, you see, and I’d go over there and bring Roz here – give the poor soul a bit of time to herself. Jonty fussed over the little thing and watched her like an old sheepdog watches a wayward young lamb. He still loves her, Kath, only now it’s a man’s love, not calf-love, like it used to be. She still treats him like a big brother, though, and I know she’s going out with an airman from Peddlesbury. The whole village knows it,’ cept her gran. And I think Jonty knows it, too. Like I said, lass, it’s a funny old war, which brings us back to you, and the dances. Why did you feel bad about going?’

‘Because I wanted to go so much that I shouldn’t have; because somehow I feel Barney might find out.’

‘But he’s abroad. How’s he likely to find out unless you tell him?’ Grace took mugs from the mantelpiece and placed them on a tray. ‘Anything else you’ve got on your mind, while we’re in the mood for it?’

‘Not really. Just that – well, things haven’t been very good between Barney and me lately – in our letters, I mean. I joined the Land Army without asking him and knowing he wouldn’t like it. Then I sprung it on him just before I came here. He doesn’t like women in uniform.’

‘And he’s annoyed about it – doing a bit of a sulk, is he? Hmm. Jealous, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Grace supplied, matter-of-factly. ‘Stands to reason.’

‘He needn’t be, Mrs Ramsden. I’ve said I’m sorry. I write him loving letters and I’m saving up hard for our home. I know I shouldn’t go to the dances, but I do, so there it is.’

‘Yes, and you enjoy them. But I thought we’d decided there was nothing wrong in your going out once in a while, so stop worrying about your Barney. Just keep sending him nice, loving letters as if nothing’s happened and he’ll soon see he was wrong and give up hurting you. Men can be like that, you know – spoiled. Happen his mother is a bit possessive.’

‘She was.’ Possessive, that was Mrs Allen, all right. She’d disliked having to share her son. Barney’s mother would have resented any girl he brought home. ‘But I’ll do what you said, about the letters.’

Keep writing loving, dutiful, forgiving letters. But for how long would Barney keep up his hurt? And for how long could she endure it?

‘That’s right, Kath. Bear with him. He’s bound to take it badly, being parted from you; maybe makes him think things he shouldn’t. But don’t take all the blame on yourself. You’ve done nothing wrong, and don’t you forget it.’

‘I’ll try not.’ She would even try to stop being grateful for the ring he’d placed on her finger, because it didn’t seem to matter here who she was or what she was. At Home Farm she was Kath, the landgirl. She was accepted – yes, and liked.

‘Right, then. Off you go with that tea.’ Grace stood at the door, tray in hands, while Kath pulled on her boots. ‘And, lass –’

‘Yes, Mrs Ramsden?’

‘I think you and me have known each other long enough for you to call me Grace. Roz does, and I’d like it if you would.’

‘And I’d like it, too,’ Kath said, the tremble of tears on her whispered words. ‘I’d like it very much.’ Diffidently she took a step nearer, then gently kissed the older woman’s cheek. ‘And thanks. Thanks for – for
everything.
’

Sighing deeply, Grace closed the kitchen door. So that was young Kath sorted out; that was Kath’s barrier down, she thought, well pleased with the turn their little chat had taken. If only she could sort Jonty’s life so easily.

Clucking irritably she filled another mug. Best take Mat a drink, stay and chat with him a moment, take his mind off all that form-filling.

Her eyes misted over. She loved that great, soft Mat; loved him as Jonty loved Roz. And she’d had such hopes. In her silly daydreams she had sat in St Mary’s and heard the words so often.

I publish the banns of marriage between Jonathan Ramsden, bachelor, and Rosalind Fairchild-Jarvis, spinster, both of this parish
…

Once, there had been such substance to her dreams. And then the war had come …

‘Just think, Mat – it costs a man his life for listening to the BBC, yet here we take it for granted.’ Grace snapped off the late-night news, her face grave. ‘I wish, though, that sometimes they could find something good to tell us.’

Mind, a convoy had got through to Malta; that was good, but at what cost in young lives? And on the Russian front, fighting was fierce, still, and neither side getting anywhere; only dead lads to show for it, and scorched earth; the burning of Russia, so the invader should not have it. And still fighting in Burma, our army was; men at war in a distant country some of them had hardly heard of, till all this started.

But most distressing of all, Grace fretted, was the newspaper editor in Poland who had tuned-in to our news broadcasts, and died for it.

‘Something good? Aye, love.’ Mat kissed his wife tenderly, lovingly. ‘Think I’ll turn in. Want to make an early start on Mrs Fairchild’s land, get the harrow on to it. Fire all right?’

‘I’ll take a look at it.’ Jonty reached for his jacket. ‘I’ll take a look at the sky, as well, while I’m out.’