A Summer Promise (31 page)

She pushed the loose plank back into place and headed for the door, which she had shut behind her as she entered the summer house. As she opened it and slipped into the weedy garden, she wondered which of them was now the guardian of young Tom the chimney sweep’s adventures. Had Alice changed her mind and decided to pack it in her big cabin trunk? Had Marigold been told about the book and decided to read it for herself? Or had Tom, who had teased her so frequently, actually wanted the book to remind him of home? But Maddy, retracing her steps, told herself that it didn’t matter a jot; Mr Kingsley’s book had gone.

She reached the beck and turned towards the village. The book is not important, she told herself severely. It was Gran who mattered now.

TOM WAS WITH
his unit, brewing up after a long and tiring day. The war in North Africa was over and the troops had been brought back to Europe in order to ‘chase the Jerries back to where they belonged’ which, Tom presumed, was Berlin. There was constant activity going on overhead as planes both British and American droned towards their target which was also, Tom presumed, Berlin.

Earlier in the evening there had been a pleasant interlude between a lean French farmer and the British soldiers. The farmer, carrying a milk pail in one hand, had approached them cautiously, obviously not sure to which side they belonged. But then he must have recognised their uniform or heard them speaking English, for he had walked towards them with more confidence, smiling shyly, and as soon as he got close enough had broken into voluble French. Tom had grinned at him and begun to speak French himself; reflecting that there had been some point after all to all those language classes he had attended at St Oswald’s!

Ricky, who had taken sciences and spoke almost no French, had grinned at the farmer, demanding in a whisper as he did so that Tom should translate. ‘He’s telling us that the Boche have stolen everything but his cows, cattle being too heavy to carry. The herd is still productive and he thought we might like to have real milk in our tea.’ The farmer had held out his bucket and the men had accepted gratefully, reciprocating by giving him some of the chocolate bars which the American soldiers – who called them candy bars – had insisted their English counterparts should accept.

But now, sitting by a fire upon which bubbled a very large pot of vegetable stew, Tom and Ricky discussed the war as they saw it. ‘The maddening thing is that officers order but never explain,’ Ricky said restlessly. ‘But it was interesting to hear what the doughboys thought of our equipment.’ He chuckled. ‘Some of ’em just couldn’t believe we’d already had five years of war and not been blown off the planet. Why, even their chuck wagons, as they call them, are more up to date than our gharries, and their tanks put ours to shame.’

Tom pulled a wry face. ‘Did you see that German Tiger tank parked on the brow of a hill this morning?’ he asked. ‘For all that it had probably been abandoned there, I got the impression it was actually sneering at us, knowing we couldn’t possibly hit it at that range, and not bothering to shell us because we were no threat to its army. I wonder what it’s like to fight a war with equipment like that? Interesting, anyway.’ He sighed. ‘Is that stew done yet, do you think? Oh Lor’, we forgot the spuds. Well, we’ll just have to dip the bread in the gravy as usual.’

Ricky grunted and leaned forward to jab his knife into the nearest carrot. ‘I think it’s cooked,’ he said rather doubtfully. ‘Is it Oxo gravy again? If so, you can put my bread on hold. I’d rather have it wrapped round some of that cottage cheese we won earlier in the day. All right by you?’

‘If it’s Oxo gravy I’ll do the same,’ Tom said, beginning to ladle out the stew, and reflecting as he did so how lucky he and Ricky were to be together. In his army career so far he had made many friends – and lost some, too – but he and Ricky had always managed to stick by each other. In the desert it had been important to have a pal on whom one could rely, as it had been when they had moved on through Tunisia to tackle the Italian campaign.

But now that the war in Europe was also nearing its end, the best thing about having such a friend was the conversation in the quiet hours after whatever meal the supply wagons had managed to deliver. Then one could reminisce about home and family, and discuss whom one most admired amongst the female film stars. Tom talked often of Alice and Marigold, conscious of his good luck in having two such glamorous girlfriends. At one point, whilst he was still in the desert, Marigold had sent him a small crumpled photograph of herself which he had placed in his wallet, carrying it in the top pocket of his shirt and feeling heartbroken when it had disappeared after he had forgotten to hide the wallet before going to sleep one night. ‘So much for the brotherhood of man,’ he had said resignedly to Ricky. ‘I never thought there was anyone mean enough to steal from a feller out here in the sticks. What can they spend the money on anyhow?’ Next day, however, he had had to eat his words, for the wallet had been discovered and handed back to him by the finder with the money still intact. He did not discover for several days that the photograph was missing.

He had told Ricky he meant to marry her when the war was over, and his friend had raised unbelieving eyebrows. ‘I don’t remember the photograph at all, but I’ll take your word for it that she’s a real dazzler. But what about Alice? Now she’s a very pretty girl, and she won’t be best pleased if you throw her over.’

Tom had felt guilty and mumbled that he and Alice had never mentioned marriage. ‘My trouble is I’m a little bit in love with three girls – well, two really, because Maddy’s just a friend – but the only one I had a photo of was Marigold,’ he had told his friend, adding rather melodramatically that losing the photo really didn’t matter, for the picture of his golden-haired Marigold would live in his heart for ever.

Ricky had given a rude chortle. ‘Along with Bette Davis, Mae West and Veronica Lake,’ he had said derisively. ‘I can see you’re in love, but you needn’t tell such whoppers. In my opinion no girl could hold a candle to the incomparable Miss Davis.’

But that had been months ago and now, if he was honest, Tom would have to admit that he no longer found it easy to call Marigold’s beauty to mind. In fact, again being honest, he really didn’t think much about women; he had other subjects on his mind; winning the war, for instance.

‘Everyone at home seems to think it’s all over,’ Ricky said gloomily. He held out his tin plate. ‘I don’t believe it is Oxo gravy, so give me my share and then we can both get some sleep.’

Next morning, when Tom rolled up his blanket, there was a light wind blowing and a drizzling rain. Breakfast as usual was anything the supply wagons had managed to find and Tom, despite eating his share of the stew the night before, had awoken hungry. With the remainder of the milk that the farmer had given them, and a couple of large cups of oatmeal, he made a sort of porridge which he sweetened with sugar captured from a German unit. ‘Who’s going to take the wheel first today?’ he asked his companion.

Ricky shrugged. Ever since arriving in Europe they had been seconded as lorry drivers, for men were desperately needed to handle the big Bedford trucks of which the army seemed to have a never-ending supply – which was fortunate, for the big vehicles, heavily laden, soon began to develop faults and had to be replaced by other vehicles which had not yet suffered from being driven through rivers, cornfields, copses and other unlikely pathways – and on this particular day Tom and Ricky had been detailed to collect food from one of the depots. They were looking forward to a trip which would not leave them stinking of petrol, or prey to the constant fear that a passing soldier might throw a cigarette stub into their load, thus sending them all to Jericho by the nastiest route of all.

The day started cool and damp, but within half an hour of their setting out on the three-hundred-mile round trip, the sun had come out and they found themselves passing through attractive countryside. Woods, meadows and streams edged the road, cocks crowed and somewhere they could hear the tinkle of sheep bells. Tom wondered where they were. It might be anywhere; unless you knew the language, or recognised the place names, you had no idea through which country you were driving. The men simply drove, only consulting the map upon which their route was already traced when they came to a crossroads or feared they might have missed their way.

‘It must be beautiful country in peacetime,’ Tom said longingly as the lorry thundered through a little whitewashed village. ‘When this lot is over I mean to farm. Someone said we’d be given some sort of resettlement grant to help us back into civvy street, and mine will purchase land, and stock as well if the money will run to it. What about you?’

Ricky grinned. They frequently discussed what they would do when peace came and both young men were apt to change their minds at random, depending upon where they were and what they were doing. ‘I’ve decided at last to go to university and try to get a law degree. I know I said I wanted to join an experimental laboratory, but I’ve decided I don’t fancy the idea after all. So I’ll go for law, partly because I believe it’s where most money is made and partly because experimentation – any sort – will be connected in the public mind with what German scientists have been doing.’ He gave an eloquent shudder. ‘You know what I mean.’

Tom nodded. ‘And you’re going to say I’m wasting the valuable asset of my brilliant mind,’ he said gloomily. ‘But if you ask me, the universities will be full of older men twitching whenever they hear a motorbike engine, and diving for cover under their desks whenever something backfires. I want to forget all that and concentrate on becoming a normal human being again. And don’t say I never was, or I shall be forced to punch you on the nose. And now let’s get back to camp, because if you ask me we’ll be back on petrol-ferrying tomorrow and I’d like to get a good night’s sleep first. Apart from the danger, the smell of the petrol when we’re crossing rough country goes straight to my stomach.’

Next day, however, their orders had changed. They were to visit the main distribution depot and stock up with an enormous list of supplies which made Ricky chuckle and remind Tom how they had raided the German store in the desert.

‘At least we shan’t have to watch for young fools chucking cigarette ends about,’ he said. ‘And once we’re loaded with goodies we’ll be able to snitch a fag or two and have ourselves a bit of a break, which we couldn’t do if we were ferrying petrol; too dangerous.’

They had a successful trip, and by the time they neared the end of the return journey it was growing dusk. Tom, who was driving, was simply ambling along, feeling at peace with the world. Gentle hills, not unlike the fells of Yorkshire, greeted him as he drove, and they splashed across a ford which might have been the very one they crossed when leaving the Hall in Mr Thwaite’s Daimler. As they turned into the next village he slowed down, gazing at the houses and suddenly realising that they were not houses at all, but shells. He slowed a little more.

‘It’s deserted,’ he said, raising his voice to be heard above the truck’s engine. ‘I wonder what it means when people tie ribbons to the trees? I know it has some significance . . .’

‘My God, it’s a minefield. That’s why the place is deserted,’ Ricky shouted suddenly. ‘Don’t you remember? White ribbons, or skull and crossbones; the whole village is a bloody minefield! Let’s get out of here fast. Oh, God, stick to the road! If you go on the verge the chances are . . .’

Tom obeyed, feeling his heart leap in his chest. He thought they had stuck to the main road but now he realised that, distracted by the gentle weather and pleasant countryside, he must have gone astray without noticing. He turned to Ricky, and even as he slowed to go as smoothly as possible there was a tremendous explosion and blackness descended, wiping out the dusky evening, the peaceful countryside, and the pinprick of stars.

Maddy had to wait until she and Gran had gone to their bedroom that night to have a talk, for Mrs O’Halloran’s aunts, sisters, nieces and even the occasional nephew seemed to be everywhere, and had clearly already made Larkspur their home. So it was almost midnight before Maddy, who was sharing not only Gran’s room but also her big double bed, felt they could safely talk without being overheard. Finally she explained to her grandmother what she intended they should do next day. ‘We’ll get a taxi to pick us up at ten o’clock and take us into Ripon, right to the very door of the solicitor’s office,’ she said. ‘Then we’ll ask to speak to this Mr Tebbit, who you said witnessed your signature on the original document. You must tell him that you only signed your inheritance away because the O’Hallorans threatened you, and you were afraid . . .’

Gran snorted. ‘I’m not afraid of the O’Hallorans,’ she said boastfully, but Maddy noticed that she said it in a very small voice. ‘I’ll soon tell them off if they try to bully me.’

Maddy opened her mouth to remind Gran that she had not talked so big down in the kitchen with the O’Halloran family listening, but then closed it again. Pointless to upset the old lady, so she spoke softly. ‘I know you’re very independent, Gran, and of course you’re not frightened of them, but that is not the point of our visiting the solicitor. I want you to rescind the Deed of Gift – that is what you want as well, isn’t it, Gran?’

There was an appreciable pause before Gran replied, and when she did so it was with a certain amount of doubt creeping into her voice. ‘But Maddy, if I take back the Deed of Gift they’ll up and go; the whole perishin’ tribe of them. I suppose I could sleep in the parlour rather than try to climb the stairs by myself – it took you all your strength to get me up here tonight, wouldn’t you say? – but I’m out of practice with everything but cooking. I doubt I could tackle any of the outside chores like collecting eggs, or feeding the pigs. But of course if
you
were here to do what the O’Hallorans have been doing we might manage. Only the war makes things difficult; all the young men have gone for soldiers, and the old ’uns can pick and choose. Can you leave the army right away?’