Whisper on the Wind (46 page)

Yet married? Hester frowned. Roz had been a child at the outbreak of war; just sixteen and striving to keep up with Jonty. And she had looked on fondly, sure that love would grow between them. She had never worried when they were together. Roz was safe in Jonty’s care. He was right for her. One day they would marry and Ridings would have a master again, and sons. Martin would have liked the young farmer – without a doubt, he would.

Then war had come to Alderby St Mary; came in the guise of an aerodrome and bombers. Acre upon acre of farm land laid waste to runways and ugly Nissen huts, buildings that grew overnight like mushrooms. In field corners, ringed round by fences of barbed-wire, stood guns to protect those bombers; camouflaged trucks and transports sped up and down lanes that had known nothing more startling than a horse and cart or a herd of slow-moving cows. Roz had fallen in love with one of those incomers: a young man, handsome in his uniform, with the wing of a flyer on his tunic. He and Roz were lovers. She knew it as surely as she knew her granddaughter and now nothing would do but that they be married and proclaim that belonging to the world.

Hester sighed; a sigh of regret and of surrender, too. She would wait and see; wait until Paul came. And she would do what was right for Janet’s child – that at least she owed her daughter.

‘Do you know what suddenly I’ve got a fancy for,’ she demanded of Polly. ‘For shortbread fingers, would you believe? Now isn’t that unpatriotic of me?’ She laughed.

‘More like downright foolish, I’d say. One baking of shortbread would take your butter and sugar ration for a fortnight.’ It was good, though, to hear Hester Fairchild laugh. There had been a sudden change in her mood, Polly’s alert mind had noted that morning; a lifting of her spirits. ‘And who might be coming to tea that’s deserving of shortbread fingers?’

‘Not to tea, but coming soon – Roz’s airman. She’s told me more about him. And Polly – this is strictly between the two of us – she wants to be married. Now what would you say to that, if you were me?’

‘Married, is it? What’s so wrong in that with a war on and them never knowing what tomorrow’ll bring. You and me should know all about that – me especially, that never knew what it was to be a wife.’ She reached for tray and cloth, smoothing it meticulously, setting out cups and saucers. ‘You’ll not deny her? The youngsters have to grow up before their time, these days. She’s a bairn, by law, but she’s a woman for all that. You’ll let her?’

‘I’ve wanted nothing less than her complete happiness since the day Janet died. I won’t deny it to her now, Polly, be sure of that.’

The two grey shire horses were harnessed into the mowing machine and a fine sight, Mat exulted, wishing they were both his; knowing Marquis was every bit as good an animal as his own gradely Duke, though he’d never have admitted it openly.

He eased himself carefully on to the iron seat of the mower. He’d have an aching backside before the field was cut, but it was a small price to pay for sitting behind two magnificent shires; seeing the hay fall in swathes with every step they took. The cutting of Beck Lane field would take less than a day; Jonty and his tractor were welcome to Ten-acre, then. So long as the first cut belonged to him and the shires, Mat cared little. And later, Marquis would be watered and fed and returned to his owner who managed nicely without tractors; a man after Mat Ramsden’s own heart. By the time the hay had been turned and dried, raked into cocks and carted into the barn smelling as sweet as anything on the face of this earth, old Duke would have worked like the thoroughbred he was and earned his keep for the year.

The morning sky was blue and cloudless, the hay thick and ready for cutting and he had two magnificent horses at his fingertips. This day, war or no war, Mat was a contented man.

Kath had loosed Daisy from the milk-float shafts and was standing beside the little animal at the water-trough when Marco crossed the yard.

‘Kat.’ He said it softly, eyes wide and warm with pleasure. ‘Will you be working at the field? Will I see you?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Her words came in a whisper, her face grave. ‘Later, maybe, when the cutting is finished.’ Why did she feel this way whenever he was near her? Why was it so easy to forget she was married? ‘Grace says you’re to eat with us. We can talk then, Marco.’

It would be easier when they were not alone; when there could be no reaching out to touch, no speaking with their eyes. Marco did it all the time, now – was good at it; good at looking at her and having his eyes say ‘I want you’.

‘
Si.
Already Jonty has told me. I like to sit with the family. I can think I am home, then, with my brothers and all of us talking and laughing and arguing. Our kitchen was a noisy place, but Mamma loved it. I am sad for her. They are alone now, she and Papa.’

Sad. The whole crazy war was sad. Families broken up and marriages placed on ice. She wished, sometimes, that she had never come to Alderby but that was a nonsense when she knew that not for anything would she have missed one day of all this; not even threshing day. Especially threshing day. Yet she ought to try harder to stop caring for Marco; stop it before the restlessness between them had its way. She was fooling herself if she thought anything could come of their affair, because affair it was. Love, attraction, wanting – by whichever name she let it be called, it was there. It snapped and crackled between them like summer lightning; was there in his eyes so she must look away lest he should know it was the same for her, too.

‘Sad. Well – see you …’ She made to walk away but he said softly:

‘Katarina?’

Just her name, that was all, but she raised her head and saw the words there.

‘I love you,’ his eyes said and she wanted to look back at him; to hold his eyes with her own so he would know that she understood.

‘Must go.’ Quickly she looked away. ‘Must feed Daisy …’

They ate a typical wartime farmhouse meal of rabbit stew. Rabbits were not a part of the meat ration but there for the catching and blessed by many a country housewife when she had nothing left with which to feed her family. The onions, potatoes and carrots they were cooked with were grown now in most gardens in place of flower-beds and lawns which were considered unpatriotic and must be dug up and given over to the growing of food. Digging for Victory, it was called.

Grace carried dishes of vegetables to the table, then served portions of stew on hot plates. She liked having people at her table and she must remember to pick out a large piece for the prisoner. Marco was a good lad who worked hard and deserved what little food she was able to give him. Marco had a mother, too, who must worry about him. Had Jonty been a prisoner, she, Grace, would have been grateful to the unknown woman who showed kindness to him. Sons were sons the whole world over, though some must be called enemies.

She placed an extra piece of meat on Marco’s plate, just to give thanks that her own son was at home and not thousands of miles away, a prisoner in a foreign country. It was the least she could do and after all, she thought defiantly, this
was
Grace Ramsden’s kitchen!

‘When will you be finished in Beck Lane?’ Jonty was eager to start on Ten-acre, though he didn’t begrudge his father the pleasure of cutting the smaller field with his precious horses.

‘By about two, I reckon, then Marquis can go back.’

‘Can Marco take him? It’d save me a lot of time, if he could. You know the farm – the smallholding by the crossroads?’

‘I know it, Jonty, but it is not possible. I am not allowed out alone. I must not leave the farm – it is the rule.’ Even here he was still a prisoner, and Mat his gaoler. ‘But I’ll rub him down, and feed him.’ Marco liked horses, too; would have liked nothing better than to walk the animal back to its owner. But such a freedom was denied a prisoner of war. Returning alone he might be mistaken for an escaper, his yellow patches would see to that, reminding him as they always did of what he was – disliked by most, and unwelcome. He’d have gone slowly mad but for Home Farm. Idling behind barbed wire was not for Marco Roselli. Carving wooden ornaments or making baskets, enduring every long-drawn-out hour of every day was not for a man whose body was young and pulsing with life.

‘It’s all right. I’ll see to it.’ After the jolting of the mower the walk would do him good, Mat considered, and Marco and the lasses could see to afternoon milking. The young ones wouldn’t miss him for an hour.

He rubbed his empty plate round with bread and smiled his thanks to Grace. She was looking tired these days, but she always dismissed his enquiries for her health with ‘Away with your bother, Mat Ramsden. It’s only my age. Comes to all women. It’ll pass …’

A woman’s age. Those strange few years of her life that a man didn’t rightly comprehend nor was encouraged to talk about for only, it seemed, could another woman truly understand what it meant.

‘That stew was right good, lass,’ he offered by way of sympathy.

‘Aye. The Lord bless rabbits,’ which was a strange thing for the wife of a farmer to say when rabbits were pests and did untold damage to most things that grew. And Lord bless the poor women who lived in towns and cities managing on bare rations and often went without so their families should not go hungry.

Almost guiltily she spooned apples and custard into blue-patterned dishes. Sometimes her good fortune made her afraid. Sometimes she thought that the little domain that was Ridings and Home Farm had shut itself off from the world outside and she wondered how long it would be before that ugly, warring world discovered their contentment and set about destroying it. She smiled across at Jonty and at Marco, too; gave that smile for an unknown woman in a faraway country.

It was the least she could do.

Polly had just left Ridings when the telephone rang – as it very often did at around noon.

‘Hullo?’ Hester announced the number to the clatter of falling pennies.

‘I – oh – hullo? Might I speak to Roz?’ Clearly he had expected Roz, for on any day but today Roz would have answered the midday ringing; would have run to get to it first. ‘This is – it’s Paul Rennie. I can ring back if –’

‘Paul – no! Please don’t hang up. Roz isn’t home to lunch today. Haymaking, you see.’ She spoke quickly, urgently, trying to get the words in before he found an excuse to put down the receiver. ‘I’m Hester Fairchild. I’ll give her a message, if you like?’

There was the smallest pause then warmly he said, ‘Hullo, Mrs Fairchild – good afternoon. Can you tell Roz there’s something on in the Mess tonight and I’ll be a bit late – about eight …’

‘About eight, Paul. I’ll tell her. Does she know where?’

‘Same place, will you tell her?’

‘I will. I’m so glad to have spoken to you. I hope it won’t be too long before we meet. And Paul – will you do something in return for me?’

‘Gladly, if I can …’

His voice sounded more relaxed, now. There might even, Hester thought, have been the hint of a smile in it.

‘Will you come to Ridings tonight – call for Roz? Not to stay,’ she hastened, ‘but just so I might meet you? Will you? I’d be so glad, if you would. It would make an old lady very happy.’

‘Then what can I say, but yes? I’d like that very much. Eight o’clock, shall it be?’

‘Eight would be fine – or a little before,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘Well, then – see you tonight …’

‘Tonight. And thanks – for asking me, I mean.’

She stood for several seconds, the receiver in her hand, then gently she replaced it, amazed at her daring, hoping it would be all right, that Roz wouldn’t flounce upstairs, red-cheeked, when she told her what she had done. She let go a sigh. Whether or not, it was done, now. She had asked Paul to come to Ridings. He’d sounded so nice; his voice deep and low and at first a little surprised. She’d been afraid she had gone too far, but he had agreed to come almost at once. She hoped she would like him; that he would like her. She would know the instant she saw him, if he was right for Roz.

She wanted him to be; wanted to say yes to their wedding, give Roz into his keeping for however short a time. Theirs wouldn’t be the wedding she had hoped for, dreamed about, but there was a war on. Time was short, now, and immeasurable, and Hester Fairchild, she told herself firmly, did not have the right to play God.

‘Now why,’ said Mat to Grace who clucked impatiently at the crossroads at the lateness of the Helpsley bus, ‘don’t you make an afternoon of it, and have a look at the shops?’

‘Shops?’ With nothing in them to buy and no coupons to spare, even if there had been? ‘Nay, Mat, I’ll get the next bus back.’

She lifted her cheek for his kiss then watched him go, taking the lane to the smallholding with Marquis beside him, irritated at the loss of even an hour; chiding herself for letting her spectacles fall to the floor and a lens to shatter. But she was lost without her reading glasses and at least the trip to Helpsley gave her the chance to pick up Arnie’s precious card.

Just to think of it made her smile. There would be two birthdays to remember, now; Kath’s on the first of July and Polly’s less than a week after. She was wondering if she dare make another cream cake, as the bus rounded the corner.

By the time she had paid her fare she had decided she very well might, for wasn’t there a war on and wasn’t life altogether too short to worry overmuch about a few pints of milk for the illicit separator? And mightn’t it be a celebration, too, of the finishing of the hay harvest and as good a crop as they’d had in years? Oh my word, yes! Another birthday cake and be blowed to that daft lot in London! Kath was family, now; only right and proper the lass should have a cake, and who was to know about it, if she didn’t tell them? She looked at her wrist-watch. A quarter-past two. She would be back by three. My, but it was hot inside this old bus …