Whisper on the Wind (29 page)

‘Sure you aren’t imagining it?’

‘Maybe I am.’ Grace took off her reading glasses and laid them on the kitchen table. ‘I hope so. And it’s no business of mine, is it?’

‘What are you doing?’ Kath had not meant to change tack so obviously, but there seemed no alternative if she wasn’t to pile lie upon lie.

‘You might well ask. It’s counterfoil time again and I can’t abide it. Surname, Christian name and address. Wish we lived in a place that didn’t take so much writing out.’

Soon it would be time to exchange old, used-up ration books for new ones, but before that could be done counterfoils for all the basic commodities, even for clothing coupons, must be laboriously completed in neat block letters. Such a lot of bother for so little food.

‘Leave them. I’ll do a bit of filling-in for you at lunchtime.’ Kath picked up one of the books. ‘Ramsden J. J.? That’s Jonty, isn’t it?’

‘Aye. Jonathan James. Called for Mat’s father, and mine.’

‘He’s lucky. Wish I knew who I’m called for.’

‘Now then, our Kath. Thought we’d got that business settled long ago,’ Grace admonished. ‘Thought we’d decided it wasn’t who you are, but what you are. And yes, happen there is something you can do for me. Fill yon kettle and put it on to boil. We’ll have a cup of tea and be hanged to the dairy for ten minutes! Then pop over to the milking parlour and ask Jonty if he wants a cup, will you?’

‘And Mat?’

‘No. Mat’s over at Ridings looking at the potatoes. Fuss, fuss, fuss. Worrying about frost getting at them, though I told him there’d be no frost, now that May’s here.’

‘There was no frost this morning.’ Kath could understand Mat’s worrying, for all that. Tender, newly-sprouted potato tops could be blighted by one late frost and all the work of ploughing, and harrowing and planting would count for nothing. ‘Cold and sharp and a heavy dew, but no frost.’

‘I know. I told him, but when that man’s got a bee in his bonnet he’ll listen to no one. And he wants me to have a word with you.’

‘What about?’ Kath took mugs from the mantel. ‘Something I’ve done?’

‘No. It’s about your leave – your time off. Had you thought about when you’d like to go?’

Go on leave? Dismayed, Kath shook her head. She hadn’t even thought about it. Time off would be nice, she supposed, but where was she to spend it? Only at Birmingham. Imagine? A week of Aunt Min’s troubles and woes; seven long days of queues for this and queues for that and the risk of air-raids, like as not.

‘Does Mat want me to go now?’

‘Towards the end of the month would be as good a time as any, Kath. Before much longer there’ll be work to be done on the root crops and after that there’ll be the hay to be got in, then the wheat and barley …’

‘I hadn’t given it a lot of thought, truth known.’ She really hadn’t. But perhaps she hadn’t wanted to think about that other life and the house she’d lived in with Barney; a week of being reminded of him and feeling guilty, and Aunt Min doing nothing to help relieve that guilt.

‘Well, put your mind to it and let us know as soon as you can.’

‘Okay. I will. I’ll have a word with Flora or the Warden about it.’ She stirred her tea, frowning. ‘I – I’m sure it’ll be all right.’

‘You don’t sound over sure. Anything wrong?’ Grace demanded, bluntly. ‘You
are
settled with us? You’re happy here, lass?’

‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Kath looked up, smiling. ‘And I’m happy here, Grace. Wouldn’t mind settling in for the duration – if you want me, that is.’

Happy? Too happy, that’s what. Too happy for her own good.

It was a little after noon as Roz crossed the orchard that Jonty called to her to stop.

‘Look, Roz, this thing has gone on long enough.’ His face wore the worried expression that once would have caused her to laugh and say that of course it had; that she’d been going to say she was sorry, anyway. In the past they had quarrelled often then made up with a kiss and a hug, but not now. The old, easy ways were over.

‘Has it? Well, it can go on a whole lot longer, as far as I’m concerned.’ She made to climb the fence but he moved quickly, barring her way.

‘Don’t, Roz. We’ve got to work together – can’t we at least try to be civil, if only for Mum’s sake? She knows something’s wrong between us.’

‘Then you should have thought about that when you stuck your nose in and presumed to become keeper of my morals. I’m sorry Grace is upset, but why don’t you tell her what it’s all about? Why don’t you tell her you called me a tart? Go on. Tell her!’

Her chin jutted defiance though she was afraid inside. Jonty had the right to be angry – the Jonty she had looked on as a brother, that was. But everything had changed now. The easiness between them was gone and she didn’t know how to cope with a Jonty who loved and wanted her.

‘I’m sorry. I’d no right to say what I did. I overstepped the mark, didn’t I?’

‘You did, Jonty, so let’s leave it at that, shall we?’

‘And we’re speaking again?’

‘I suppose so. If we must. Only as long as you stop treating me like your kid sister and stop thinking that anything I do is any business of yours.’

‘Point taken.’ She was offering crumbs, but he’d settle for that. He looked at her with sadness, acknowledging that the time for hoping was over. He would never have her. She belonged to someone else; to a man who wore a glamorous uniform and lived life on a knife edge. ‘And okay – you’ve grown up. I admit it.’

Hesitantly he held out his hand but she would not take it. She couldn’t let him touch her; not now that everything was out in the open. He mustn’t love her. She belonged to Paul.

‘Then don’t ever forget it, Jonty.’

‘I won’t.’ His face was grave and pale with misery.

She turned abruptly then, and walked away, head high, shoulders taut, with an ache inside her for an innocence lost.

Sorry, Jonty. So sorry
…

Kath set down the basket of eggs then leaned on the gate that connected Two-acre field to the larger of the cow pastures, watching Marco and Roz as they coaxed the slow-moving herd for afternoon milking.

Egg collecting was pure pleasure now that the flock was laying well again, remembering the sad sight of the near-featherless hens in their winter moult. It was good to see them in full feather once more, their fat, fluffy bottoms wobbling from side to side as they scratched for food. Now she must sort the day’s gathering of eggs and pack them ready for collection, a task that made a change, she supposed, from milking.

Chin on hand she watched the lazy progress of the clumsy cows and the two who chatted so easily together. They were so different. Roz with her pale, freckle-dotted face, her hair a flame of red; Marco lean and muscled, stripped to the waist, his skin flushed to a warm apricot, his black hair tousled.

She gazed, squinting against the brightness of the sun as Roz leaned nearer, saw the mischief in her face as she whispered in his ear. Then Marco’s shout of laughter and his smile. Such a ready, happy smile had this Italian with whom they must not fraternize; this enemy liked by everyone here – apart from Mrs Fairchild, of course. And how would she react to see them now, laughing together. Such bitterness inside her, and Marco the whipping-boy for a long-ago sniper’s bullet.

Kath held up her hand, calling ‘Marco! Over here!’ and he looked up then hurried to where she stood.

‘
Ciao
, Kat.’ Again that special smile. ‘I carry the eggs for you?’

‘Thanks. And Marco – where is your jacket?’

He took off his jacket as often as he could. Maybe because he liked the touch of the sun on his body, maybe because he disliked the bright yellow patch sewn on the back – the symbol of his captivity. Did removing that jacket make him feel less a prisoner and more an ordinary young soldier who might not see his home for many years?

‘Why you ask, Kat? Is in the same place like always: behind the barn door.’

‘Well, be careful when you put it on. I’ll slip a few eggs in the pocket for you. Is there somewhere you can cook them in the camp?’

He said there was, murmuring ‘
Grazie
’, taking her hand, holding it briefly. ‘You come now and help with the milking?’

‘Not tonight. There’s the eggs to see to and I – I won’t be seeing you for a while. Tomorrow I’m going home, you see –’ She stopped abruptly, wishing she had not said the one word that brought pain and longing to his eyes.

‘Ah, home. I shall miss you, Kat.’

‘Only for a week.’ She wanted to explain that she wasn’t really going home; that Peacock Hey and this farm were home to her now but instead she said, ‘The eggs will be a little going-away present – but don’t tell Grace.’

They walked unspeaking to the foldyard gate, with Roz already through it and urging the unwilling cows into their stalls. For just a second Kath hesitated, knowing she should not have; knowing she should have taken the basket and walked away from him. But she stood there, uncertain, knowing he would kiss her, wanting him to, closing her eyes as his forefinger tilted her chin.

It was a gentle kiss, without passion. They stood on opposite sides of the gate so they hadn’t even touched. A kiss between friends, that’s all it was, she insisted silently. Brief, though warm and firm, a parting kiss she had begged for with her eyes.

‘
Arrivederci
, Kat. Come back soon. Take care.’

‘And you, Marco. See you …’

Eyes down, cheeks flaming she walked quickly away. A kiss between friends, nothing more. Yet it had been good. She had wanted it, needed it, and he had recognized that need; answered the asking in her eyes.

So it was best she should be going away. By the time she returned that kiss would be forgotten – by both of them. It must be. Marco was her enemy, Barney’s enemy; a prisoner of war with whom there should be no contact. It was as simple as that, and she should be ashamed of what she had just done.

So why then wasn’t she?

Roz skirted the old game-cover, green now with young, growing potatoes, and climbed the stile that led to Ridings’ garden and the red-brick ruins, covered now with a flush of clematis and wisteria. Warm from the sun they stood, their winter starkness banished in a disorder of pink, purple and white. This was the way she liked to see the old walls. Soon they would be even more beautiful, with climbing roses nodding through empty stone windows and the honeysuckle soon to flower, throwing its scent on the evening air.

She didn’t resent the bespoiling as Gran did. This was the only way she had known this part of the house, so she could never dip into the past and remember tapestry-hung walls nor furniture that smelled of beeswax nor fires that burned in old, wide grates no longer there.

Through the empty, yawning door-arch she glimpsed the flagged courtyard laid down by the father she could not remember and the black-painted iron seat so pleasant to sit upon on summer afternoons. That seat, Gran said, stood where once the foot of the stairs had been; where a grand staircase made from holly wood had been polished twice a day.

Dear, remembering old house. Roz loved it in its poverty as her grandmother had loved it in its grandness. To Hester Fairchild, Ridings was no more now than a servants’ wing and a ruin of flower-covered walls; to Roz it was the home she loved.

Skirting the mounting-block she hurried across the kitchen yard, pushing open the door, calling ‘Hullo? Only me!’

‘Roz?’ Hester laid down the printed form she had been frowning over.

‘Can’t stay, Gran. Only popped in to change my shoes. And I might be a bit late for supper, with Kath gone on leave.’

‘Spare me a minute, Roz. Can we have a talk? You’ve
got
to tell me about –’

But Roz was already away, boots in hand, calling ‘’Bye!’ defences up against the probing.

Hester sighed. She was to be told nothing; certainly nothing about York. It was beginning to alarm her. Roz had always been so frank and open.

‘Deary me – why the sigh?’ Polly demanded from the doorway. ‘And where’s she tearing off to now?’

‘She just called in for something. Didn’t even give me time to ask her if she wanted a cup of tea.’ Hester held up the pot. ‘Want one? I can’t drink all this myself.’

Polly looked at the kitchen clock. Five more minutes was neither here nor there and the blanket washing had been warm work.

‘Best keep an eye on the clothes line,’ she warned. ‘Looks as if we’re in for a drop of rain.’

‘I will. It was good of you to help, Polly – even though something’s been worrying you for days. And don’t say it hasn’t,’ she hastened, ‘because you always chew on your lip when you’re worried.’

‘Aye. There
is
something.’ Polly was glad to talk. ‘It’s Arnie, see – or rather that dratted mam of his.’

‘Mrs Bagley? I was beginning to think she’d ceased to exist.’

‘And so was I. Hoped we’d never have sight nor sound of her again. But lately I’ve had my doubts. It’s my opinion she’s of a mind to have him back with her.’

‘Take him back? Surely not, when he’s doing so well with you? And Hull is still getting air-raids. She’d be mad even to think of it, no matter how much she misses him.’

‘Ha! That one don’t miss him at all. Was glad for him to be evacuated out of her way, if I’m any judge. So why’s she all of a sudden taking an interest, will you tell me? Twice since Christmas she’s sent money and it ain’t like her. She’s up to something. But best be getting back or the lad’ll be home before me. Now don’t forget what I told you. Keep an eye on those blankets.’