Whisper on the Wind (38 page)

God, what a mess it all was – and Roz thought
she
had problems?

Roz awakened to the clamouring of the alarm, reaching out, making small grunts of protest, finally finding it, silencing it.

‘Aaaaah …’ She blinked open her eyes, focusing them on the ceiling, willing them not to close again.

Tuesday, and last night had been wonderful. She raised her arms above her head and stretched her body awake from fingertips to toes, then curling herself into a ball she lay, hugging herself tightly, remembering.

Last night they had come together as if they’d been parted for weeks, not days; as if only last night was left to them, then after that – nothing. And that was mad, she knew it, because soon they would have a tomorrow; maybe a whole year of tomorrows.
Soon
, it would be; not
if.

She smiled, calling back last night; calling back Paul’s lips, his fingertips, his hard, lean body. Once, when first they were lovers, she had been a little surprised, afterwards, had not wanted to move from the circle of his arms. She had even found it difficult to speak, except to say his name, because the newness, the enormity of it, had left her strangely shy, once the pulsating need for him had left her.

But their couplings now were passionate and wild; a defiant, delirious snatching from life, just as it had been last night in the cool green deeps of the wood. Now she wanted to reach out and touch him as if he were beside her in the big bed in York, yet now she must get up and deliver milk, clean the dairy and hose down the milking parlour. Oh,
why
was life away from Paul so ordinary and colourless? Why did she only exist between their meetings; only come alive when she was with him?

She shrugged into trousers and shirt, running downstairs on stockinged feet and it was only when she lifted the kettle and realized it was already hot and full, that she turned to see her grandmother sitting at the table.

‘Gran! Morning, love.’ She bent to kiss her. ‘You’re up early. Birds, was it?’

‘No.’ Briefly her fingertips lingered on the warm young cheek. ‘It was Peggy, I suppose. I awoke at three and couldn’t get back to sleep.’

‘So you spent the rest of the night thinking and brooding? Have another cup with me, and a piece of toast? Nothing will make it better, I know, but –’

‘Nothing ever makes losing a daughter better.’

‘I know, Gran, and I’m sorry. But I never knew my mother. I’ve tried to remember something – anything – about her, but there’s nothing there; not the sound of her voice, nor the scent of her nor even her holding me …’

‘You were only two.’

‘Yes. It was different for you. You had her, Gran, and she was with you for a long time. I realize she was your comfort for losing Grandpa and your little boy. And now all you’ve got is me; red-haired Roz – with a temper to match.’ She smiled. Then, almost in a whisper she added, ‘And who isn’t always as good as she ought to be.’

She looked at the woman whose fingers fussed nervously with a teaspoon. Hester Fairchild, her grandmother, mother and father – yes, and friend, too. Always there. Safe and gentle and unchanging, though inside her she must have wept more tears than most.

‘You know I love you, Gran, even though sometimes you mightn’t think I do. It’s just –’ She shrugged, spreading her hands in a gesture of bewilderment.

‘It’s just,’ Hester said softly, willing herself to tread carefully, ‘that there’s a war on, and no one understands your war but
you.
Well,
I
understand. I have loved someone with all my heart and this old woman I’ve become loves him still. I know what it’s like to stand there as he walks away from you and all the time trying to be brave. I know how it is for you, Roz.’

‘We’ve run out of saccharin. Can you drink it without?’ Roz set the cup on the table then hurried back to the stove to turn over the toast.

‘Gran – I know what you’re going to say and yes, I will bring him home, very soon now.’ She closed her eyes as she said it, mentally crossing her fingers. ‘Very soon you’ll meet him; when haytime’s over, perhaps …’

‘Your young man? You promise, Roz?’ Her head had jerked up, eyes suddenly alert.

‘I promise.’

Hester sighed deeply, thankfully. She had never got this far before and elated she was tempted to ask why soon; why not tonight, tomorrow? But she did not. Instead she whispered, ‘Will you tell me his name?’

‘It’s Paul.’ Smiling, Roz turned from the stove. Paul. It was good to say his name in this kitchen; in this house. ‘Paul Rennie. And there’s only a scraping of marge I’m afraid, and the marmalade’s all gone.’

‘Never mind. There’s another jar due on Friday.’ All at once the marmalade ration didn’t matter. Weren’t there more important things in life – that suddenly Roz’s young man had a name and that soon he’d be coming to Ridings.

They ate in silence, Hester accepting that no more must be asked, that all she could do now was wait; Roz knowing she could not, dare not, make any promises that Fate might hear and fling back in her face.
Soon.
That was all it could be for just a little while longer.

‘Will you wear black this afternoon, Roz, or your grey costume?’

‘Neither. I shall go ordinary, as Peggy knew me. It doesn’t seem right to wear mourning for her; she was always so full of fun. Even after –’

She couldn’t say it; couldn’t say ‘even after Dunkirk’. It would have been like saying, ‘even after Paul was killed’.

‘You’ll wear a hat to church, though?’

‘I’ll wear a hat, Gran.’ Her summer straw. She would say her goodbye in a hat with little pink roses around the crown. That’s what Peg Bailey would have wanted.

And there would be no tears. Her tears would all be inside her. She was a Fairchild; later, privately, she would weep.

Tuesday morning, and Kath had set her alarm half an hour earlier. Today there would be a lot to do at Home Farm and half an hour on a June morning was no privation, really, especially when Grace was so dreading what was to come.

‘Hullo, lovey,’ she said when Kath walked through the open kitchen door. ‘You’re early, or is that clock wrong?’

‘The clock is fine. I must’ve smelled the teapot. Will it take a drop more water?’

‘It will, lass. And Mat and me were wondering –’

‘We were wondering,’ Mat said, ‘if you and Marco could manage on your own for a couple of hours?’

‘Of course we can.’ Kath took in the great size of him; tall and broad he was, just like Jonty, yet with a leanness that made him seem younger than his fifty years. ‘No bother at all.’ His face was still young, when he smiled, which wasn’t often these days; when he ran his fingers through his still-thick hair.

‘I knew you’d say that. Not so long ago me and Mat were faced with the worry of the Ridings acres and wondering how we were to manage, yet now we’ve got you and Marco and we’re as straight as we’ll ever be. Thanks, lass, though I’d rather be here, this afternoon; rather be anywhere,’ Grace whispered.

Tears that had never been far away since the night the telegram came sprang again to her eyes, and Kath reached for her hand, held it tightly.

‘I’m all right, now.’ Grace took a deep breath then let it go with a shuddering sigh. ‘Off you go to Jonty, Mat. And try not to say over much to him. He was close to Peggy and he’s got things on his mind.’

‘You’re sure, love?’ Mat bent to kiss her cheek, still moist with tears.

‘I’m sure, Mat. I’ll be all right now Kath’s come. Away you go to the milking.’

‘There now.’ Kath placed mugs of tea on the table. ‘Just tell me what’s to be done?’

‘Well, Jonty’ll want to go this afternoon – nay, not
want
to go; I think he’d give a lot for it not to be so. But we all want –
need
– to be there. Peg was like our own, you see.’

Like their own. Precious words, Kath thought. Belonging words.

‘But what’s to be done, Kath? Well, best you leave the Ridings acres alone this afternoon; better if there’s someone here, around the house. The man from the egg-packers should be coming – you’ll have to see he gets them all right. And he’ll be leaving last week’s egg money …’

‘Yes. About half-past three, I should think. Marco can get the cows in, then we’ll start the milking. Don’t worry yourself, Grace. We’ll manage.’

‘Thanks, our Kath.’ She was rewarded with a small, uncertain smile. ’And, lass – Mat thinks it’s best to keep Marco off Ridings land for a day or two; just in case. We don’t want anything to happen; not when he’s settled in so well …

’It’s Mrs Fairchild, you see. She’ll be there at the funeral, proud as Lucifer, breaking her heart like anyone would who knows what it’s like to lose a daughter, but not a tear nor a sigh about her. She’ll be remembering Miss Janet, though, and maybe thinking as how it was a German shell killed Peggy like it was a German sniper that took her man and she’ll be bitter. It’s always hardest when you can’t weep and her sort don’t weep in public …

‘So mind what I said about Marco and watch what you say up at the big house for a day or two? Just a word to the wise, Kath. I think I’ll put Mat’s suit outside on the line to sweeten. I call it his sad suit; the only dark suit he’s got, so it only sees the light of day at funerals. Smelled something terrible of mothballs when I got it out yesterday.’

The whole village would be there in their black this afternoon, and all of them smelling the same. Mothballs at a young girl’s funeral. It didn’t seem right, somehow.

‘Now then,’ said Polly, setting the kettle to boil before she had even taken her pinafore from the brown paper carrier-bag. ‘A cup of tea, I think.’

Tea comforted, and healed. When all else failed, only tea stood alone. And this day had to be lived through. It wouldn’t go away, so be blowed to tea-rationing – today, at any rate.

‘So everything’s ready, is it, ma’am? You’ll be wearing your comfortable black shoes – I’ll give them a polish. And it’ll be the usual hat and the pearl hat-pin, though I wouldn’t recommend black stockings; not when you’re not family.’

Not family? No. Maybe not. She would not intrude this afternoon, nor sit in the Fairchild pew, opposite the choir stalls. Today she would slip in at the back, try to keep her thoughts in check and send her love and understanding to the couple who must live through the pain of this afternoon.

‘Will you walk there with me, Polly?’

‘Aye. If that’s what you think best. There’s to be no flowers; only family’s. A silver collection, though, for the Red Cross.’

‘Yes. Sensible. Do more good than flowers.’ Such a sin; flowers left there to die and wither.

‘I did hear it said,’ Polly stirred the teapot round, ‘as how the Army brought her home last night. Two of her friends from the gun-site came up with her coffin, but they had to go straight back. Couldn’t stay overnight. Seems the war don’t stop for funerals.

‘So how about a spoonful of sugar in your tea this morning? Set you up nicely, a spoonful of sugar will.’

Polly Appleby knew when enough was enough and they sat in silence until Hester said, ‘I try to be grateful, Polly, that I still have Roz.’

‘Aye.’

‘Do you know – right out of the blue – Roz told me she was bringing her airman to meet me. Soon, I think. Maybe after haytime, she said.’

‘Why after haytime? Why not tonight?’

‘I don’t know. But he’s called Paul Rennie – she told me that, too.’

‘Well, I suppose the lass has her reasons, and I suppose you’ll know them in good time. And it’ll soon be haytime. Hay’s getting good and thick; two or three weeks more sun, and it’ll be ready for cutting.’

‘It will, though there’s none here at Ridings, nor wheat, either.’

‘Happen not. But your land’ll be growing wheat next year. And come autumn your potatoes and sugar-beet’ll be ready for lifting. Are we all right for milk?’ she demanded, in desperate need of another cup. ‘Just think, ma’am. Those acres will be paying you back something at last. The Master would’ve been pleased about that.’

The Master. Hester stirred her tea, eyes gazing out over the treetops and back across the years. Strange that lately she had thought about Martin so much; had heard the deep, rich timbre of his voice, heard his laugh. He had been so close that sometimes she had thought that if she walked quietly to the ruins, she would see him there in his uniform, coming down the staircase toward her as he’d done only minutes before he left.

But he had never been there; only an empty shell to remind of what was gone. For all time. All she had now was Janet’s child.

Kath watched them go, Mat, Grace and Jonty, straight-backed and unwilling to Alderby church. She had told them not to worry, that she would look after things; have the kettle on the boil, and the teapot warming, for when they got back.

Once, Grace said only that morning, hospitality following a funeral had been lavish in these parts. It had stemmed from necessity, she supposed, for in the old days men and women had walked miles to a burial and been in need of sustenance before they walked back.

Old-fashioned Yorkshire hospitality, she said, and the custom still kept – until the war, that was. Ham cooked on the bone, ribs of beef and plates of bread and best butter. And maybe a glass of port wine, afterwards, with a slice of good, rich fruit cake. But the rationing of food had put paid to all that; not even a cup of tea could be offered, now. There were some, even, who said that funeral feasts would be a thing of the past by the time the war was over, and maybe it would be a good thing.