Whisper on the Wind (73 page)

He walked to the end of the orchard, to the pippin tree. The best and sweetest in the whole orchard, that tree was, and a fair assortment of windfalls lying beneath it, an’ all.

He filled his pockets, then taking the biggest and the best of them crunched his teeth into it ecstatically, wondering if he should take one for Roz.

He was glad she’d be home from hospital when he got to Ridings. He had never heard of a grumbling appendix before. It sounded very interesting, and he hoped she would tell him all about it. It even made him wonder if he should think again about working in a bank and be a doctor instead – if he got a scholarship to the grammar school.

He would have to think about it very seriously. Tomorrow, of course, because right now there was nothing more interesting than a pocketful of apples.

He smiled, broadly. Good old Roz. He’d missed her …

‘Kath! I’m home!’ Roz, in slippers and dressing gown went straight into Kath’s open arms.

‘I’m glad, love. I missed you. And what smells so good?’

‘Meat and potato pie – mostly potato, she said. Polly left it in the oven. She’s just gone; Arnie was ravenous for his supper. And Grace brought a baked custard and stewed apples and oh, it’s so good to be back.’

‘Roz – listen. I’ve got something to tell you and I don’t know if you’ll approve.’ Kath hung up her jacket, then unlaced her boots.

‘And I’ve got news for you, too. But yours first,’ Roz demanded as Kath took the pie from the oven.

‘We-e-ll – Grace brought our rations back from Helpsley with her.’

‘Hm. They’re in the pantry.’

‘And the War Ag. told Mat they can’t find a farm man for him, nor the Ministry of Labour. Goodness knows how we’ll get the potato crop lifted.’

‘Come on, Kath – the
real
news?’

‘Oh, dear. You mightn’t like it – what I did, I mean. A gypsy came yesterday. I tried to get her to go – well, I know your gran didn’t allow them on Ridings land.’

‘I think it was more my grandfather who didn’t, and Gran just kept it up. They did something they shouldn’t have, I believe, and Grandpa had them moved on – told them never to come back to camp here.’

‘Oh, my goodness. And I’ve just told them they
can
come back, and graze their ponies, too. Sorry, Roz. Looks as if there’ll be more trouble.’

‘No. Leave it. They usually arrive in these parts in October, and stay for about a week. I won’t turn them away.’

‘The gypsy said on Luke’s Day, when ever that is.’

‘St Luke’s Day – about the middle of October, I think, and they move on after St Jude’s Day. They’ve always been around Alderby at that time. They’re no trouble, really.’

‘Don’t they steal things?’

‘Sometimes – but only food. I’ll tell them to keep off Mat’s land, but anything they can scrounge off ours they can have. The potatoes will have been harvested, by then – they’re welcome to a few turnips and any rabbits they can catch. But what led up to all this?’

And so Kath told her; every word of it.

‘She says that when they come,’ Kath finished, ‘the old one will take away the bad luck and bless the house. She said that until they arrive on Luke’s Day, she’d leave a sign to keep us safe. It was worth a try, Roz. There
is
ill-luck on this house. You’ve said so yourself, and your gran even wrote it in her diary. You’re not angry?’

‘No. And maybe they
can
lift the curse. There’s supposed to be one, though nobody knows quite what, and no one talks about it openly – just veiled mutterings about the ill-luck of the Fairchilds. She left a sign, you said? Then maybe it’s started already; keeping us safe, I mean, because I’ve had some news today. A bit of a shock too, mind, but I think our luck just might be changing.’

‘Already?’ Kath spooned apples and custard into dishes. ‘You believe it, then?’

‘I don’t know – but I’d sure as heck like to. This house has had more than its fair share of trouble; you’ve got to admit it.’ Then, because there was no way to say it gently, she murmured, ‘I’m adopted.’

The clock ticked loudly in the silence. Kath regarded the custard that trembled on her poised spoon, then whispered, ‘Say that again?’

‘I said I’m adopted. When I was three days old, it seems. Polly has just told me. I’m not a Fairchild, except by name, and all I know about my real mother is that she was very young, unmarried, and turned out into the street by her parents. My mother – Janet – took her in and looked after her until I was born. Janet knew about the haemophilia, you see, and that she ought never to conceive. They were on their way to Scotland to adopt a baby boy when they were killed, and that’s just about it …’

‘Just about it? Are you
sure
?’ Kath was still breathless. It didn’t seem possible. Roz
was
a Fairchild; she just had to be.

‘I’m sure, lovey. At least I think I am. It’s going to take a bit of getting used to, but what Polly told me makes sense.’

‘Polly knew? Did anyone else?’

‘No. Not even Mr Dunston, and no one must ever know – not even Jonty. There’s no way I can prove I’m
not
a Fairchild, they sewed it all up so well. But I believe Polly. Sprog,’ she whispered, ‘would have been all right.’

‘Y’know, Roz, the gypsy said there were children for this house – a lot of them. None for me, she said, but children for Ridings.’

‘And you think they’ll be mine, Kath?’ She shook her head, her eyes sad. ‘Oh, no.’

‘Sorry, love. Shouldn’t have told you that, should I? But tell me about it – all of it. And Roz – get rid of those diaries.’

‘I will. Polly said the same and I’ll burn them. You once said Gran would probably have done it herself, if she could have known about that fighter. It’s nearly half-past seven. Time for the blackout. Let’s close all the curtains, then make up the fire and talk. Oh, and there’s something else. My natural mother was called Megan. She had red hair, would you believe, and green eyes. It all adds up. But imagine it – adopted?’

‘Ha! That’s posh, isn’t it?’ Kath grinned, pulling down the window blind, swishing the curtains across. ‘Lucky old you, being adopted.
I
was
dumped
!’

‘Kath, love,’ Roz whispered, when they had finished their laugh, ‘you and I won’t ever lose touch, will we?’

‘We won’t,’ Kath smiled gently. ‘Not ever, and that’s a promise.’

September coming to its close, with bright orange suns rising over Peddlesbury Wood, and sharp, misty mornings.

‘Noticed anything, Kath – the swallows, I mean? They’ve all gone. When I went into hospital they were gathering on the telephone lines, making such a noise, getting ready to leave. And now they’re all away.’

With them had gone summer – the high summer of her love, Roz thought. Now autumn had come, cobwebs sparkling with dewdrops, brambles purple in the hedges, and elderberries hanging in shining black clusters.

‘Yes. About a week ago. I noticed, one morning, that they weren’t there any more.’

She had wished on her first swallow, Kath remembered; a wish that was sweet and impossible. Now the swallows had gone, the cuckoos, too, taking her wish with them. She would never have Marco; wishes were made of daydreams, without substance. What was real and dark with foreboding was a war which only a few weeks ago had entered its fourth year. And the Allies no nearer the victory – the total victory – Winston Churchill swore we would have.

In North Africa, fighting still raged, and in Russia Stalingrad had surrendered bitterly and bloodily, though some still fought on, street by street, house by house, in the outskirts of the city. But the battle was almost over and the Nazi invaders preparing to dig in for another brutal Russian winter.

‘We’ll be starting to lift the potatoes next week,’ Roz said. This was her first milk-round since that last day of the corn harvest and it seemed, now, that the golden summer had never been, nor Paul, for it was difficult to call back their loving; call back, even, the sound of his voice or see his face in the quiet of her mind. The swallows were gone, and Paul, too.

Last year, when they met, when they had come together like two halves of a perfect, shining whole, she had not thought that one year on she would be alone, lonely and bewildered.

‘Potato harvest? They call it
tattie scrattin
’ round these parts, don’t they?’

‘They do. And it’s the worst job of all,’ Roz said soberly. ‘Your back will never straighten up again, that I guarantee.’

‘Then when your hands are cold and caked with mud and your back is about to break, you’ll just have to think about all that lovely money you’ll get from your acres, Roz.’ And remember Marco Roselli, perhaps, who helped plough them – so long ago, it seemed.

‘Wish Gran were here, to see the first sack filled.’

‘And Marco.’

‘Oh, heck! It’s going to be a long, dark winter, Kath. What say we try to get to York on Saturday and do a flick; spoil ourselves a bit, before potato lifting starts?’

‘Mm. Wouldn’t mind seeing
In Which We Serve.
Or had you thought we might go with the Peacock Hey crowd to the big dance in York? There’d be room on the transport for both of us, if you’d like to?’

‘Thanks, Kath, but not just yet.’ Not dancing to sweet, soft music in any other arms but his; not remembering that every sentimental word of every love song were words they had once sung softly as they danced. It was so awful to have loved as she and Paul had loved, only to be torn apart. They had belonged so completely that it was inconceivable they would never again be lovers.

‘Okay – it’s
In Which We Serve
then, and a quick look at the shops.’

‘Fine. And if we can get there before closing time, we might even come across a cosmetic queue. My lipstick is down to next to nothing and I’ve used up all my cold cream.’

Cosmetics had almost ceased to exist, now, and anyone lucky enough to come upon a queue when the chemist had received his quota would wait patiently for an hour if her reward at the end of it could be a lipstick, or a tub of rouge.

‘Could do with a tablet of decent soap, myself. Let’s see what we can find. We might be lucky.’

They might indeed, for hadn’t the gypsy left them a sign and wouldn’t the old one be coming soon to take their ill-luck away? If it could only be lifted, she would never ask God for anything again, Kath promised silently.

‘There’s a bottle of milk left over,’ Roz called from the back of the milk-cart. ‘Shall we let Polly have it?’

An extra pint of milk, Kath thought soberly; now
that
was what life was about these days. And staying alive, if you were young, until tomorrow …

Kath could never have thought – not in the wildest of her dreams, even – that this would be so wonderful a day.

Grace had been the start of it, beckoning from the kitchen window as they returned from the milk-round, and Roz had run to the house, leaving Kath to take the little pony from the shafts and lead it to the trough to drink.

‘Letter for you, Kath. Postmarked Malton. And who is Jean Butterworth?’ Roz demanded.

‘Never heard of her.’ She didn’t recognize the handwriting on the envelope, either, Kath realized, turning it over. ‘But whoever she is, she’s a landgirl.’ Which didn’t take a lot of working out, considering her address was the Women’s Land Army Hostel at Kirk Sutton, near Malton.

‘Kath – had you thought? It could be news of Marco!’

‘
Marco?
’

She tore at the envelope with shaking fingers, then her face crumpled, tears all at once filling her eyes, making it impossible, almost, to read the words.

Katarina. I find a friend who will post my letters
…

‘Roz! It
is
from Marco!’ He had written. As he said he would, he had found a way to get a letter to her. ‘Where’s Malton,’ she demanded, thrusting the letter at Roz.

‘About thirty miles away – and am I to read it? You’re sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. It’s a very ordinary letter – just telling me where he’s working, and that he’s well …’

Working at Glebelands Farm, in a village called Kirk Sutton. He’d signed it ‘M’ – hadn’t even used his name.

‘But it would have to be – well, ordinary, wouldn’t it? When last you saw him, Barney had just come home, blinded, and for all Marco knows nothing has changed. You might even be back in Birmingham. If that letter hadn’t found you, there’s no knowing who might have opened it. A passionate letter from an Italian prisoner of war could have landed the pair of you in big trouble.’

‘If I’d been gone, Grace wouldn’t have opened it. She’d have sent it on, thinking it was from some landgirl I’d known.’

‘Maybe so. But I think Marco was playing safe, for all that. He wanted you to know he was all right – and thinking about you. And hoping to hear from you, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘But
how
? Do I write back to him care of this Jean Butterworth at the hostel? A bit risky …’

‘Could be. But Malton’s not all that far away. Why don’t you go there – try to find him, Kath. We’ll get the map out at dinnertime and find exactly where that village is. It’s worth a try, isn’t it – especially now you’ve got so much to tell him.’