The Farmer's Daughter (30 page)

‘Do you know about Heidi Beauman?' Elise asked him, as Gabrielle set about making a better meal than the one she had envisaged.

‘I know she married a Gestapo officer.'

‘Yes, I could have slapped her for it, but she suffered for it in the end. Both she and her husband died in Berlin. The Russians killed them.'

‘Oh.' He sat down and was about to light a cigarette from the packet he took from his pocket, but stopped himself. If cigarettes were currency, he should not burn them. He put it back in the packet and laid it on the table, together with a lighter he had bought with
Lagergeld
in Bushey. Maria scooped them up in triumph.

‘I'm sorry, but I had to tell you.'

‘It is of no consequence. I got over her a long time ago.'

‘Good.' She paused. ‘Are you staying, Karl? Rebuilding has started, but with so few men …'

‘I want to see
Vater
and
Mutter
,' he said.

‘Don't.'

‘But I must. They are all right, aren't they?'

‘As far as I know. The border between east and west was closed last year and now you need an interzone travel passport. If you apply for one of those, they will interrogate you before issuing one and then you have to wait nine weeks while it is processed. Unless you have a plausible story, the Russians will know you were in England and that will be enough to condemn you. You will be followed and arrested as a spy as soon as you arrive.'

‘Is it that bad?'

‘Yes. The Russians and the German border police are everywhere, patrolling the border between the zones, shooting anyone they don't like the look of. It is worse since the British and Americans combined their zones at the beginning of this year. At one time it was easy to go to the east and visit relatives, but now the Soviets are more intransigent than ever.'

‘Perhaps I can smuggle my way across.'

‘What then? You will still have many miles of Soviet-occupied country to cover before you reach Hartsveld. You could do better staying here and finding a job. Men are needed.'

So many men had died or been wounded, manpower was scarce in Osnabrück; there were thousands more women than men, and women were doing most of the work clearing the rubble so that reconstruction could begin. There were very few fully habitable houses and some of those had been requisitioned for the occupying forces, something the inhabitants resented. The town was surrounded by farmland and workers were wanted there too. Wages were barely above subsistence level, even if there had been goods to buy. Karl's cigarettes and chocolate would be put to good use but he knew they would soon run out of those. He
was a burden on their limited supplies. Overriding that was his determination to go to Hartsveld. He had no coherent plan of what he would do after that. It all depended on what he found when he arrived.

‘I'll think about it,' he said, thinking of Jean waiting for him to return. But how could he leave these people, his kith and kin, and his homeland in such a mess? He was torn between two loves, between his duty and a promise.

Gordon had managed to find a labourer to do the work Karl had been doing. Joe Bunford worked well enough, but he did not have Karl's enthusiasm, nor his cheerfulness. He did not sing as he worked. Jean was prepared to tolerate him only until Karl came back. She had not heard from him. Telling herself that letters could take a long time to arrive did not make her feel any better.

She stayed out of doors as long as she could because there were tensions in the house between her mother and Rosemary. Rosie wanted to do things her way and they rarely coincided with the way Doris had been doing them all her life, especially when it came to looking after babies. Jean knew her mother was unhappy. She wasn't sure about her father; he seemed to have shrunk even more inside himself. Now Gordon had taken over, Pa did not even have the farm to occupy his mind, or if it did, he did not speak of it. She worried about them both.

‘Gran, we really must do something to help Mum and Pa,' she said to her grandmother one day when she visited her, as she
often did. ‘Rosie is becoming a bore and Gordon always sides with her. Have you heard of any property going that might suit them?'

‘No, love, or I would have told you.'

‘I'm going into Wisbech tomorrow. I'll go to the estate agents to see what's on the market.'

‘Very little, I think.' She paused and scanned Jean's face. ‘What about you?'

‘What about me?'

‘Do you get on with Rosie?'

‘We rub along. I'm outside most of the day, so I hardly come into conflict with her.'

‘You will want your own home one day.'

‘I can't think about that now.' The war had disrupted so many lives; country people were moving to the towns, townspeople deciding they wanted to settle down in the country, especially if their homes had been bombed. Finding somewhere to live was an unending obsession. Jobs that had been secure before the war were no longer there. Mechanisation had come to the farms and did the work of an army of men. Gordon had embraced it as far as funds would allow. Robin and Dobbin were sold, far too cheaply in Jean's opinion. She missed them and she knew parting with them had distressed Pa. Misty was kept because, with petrol in short supply, they still needed her. Donald lived in digs in Peterborough. He came home occasionally when he and Gordon would have their heads together over some new piece of machinery.

It was all so unsettling. She was lost, bewildered. She did not seem to fit in anywhere. Most of her friends were married or courting, even Bill. He and Brenda were going out together and it looked as though there might be a wedding soon. She wished
him well. If her mother thought she had made the wrong choice, she refrained from saying so. Gordon needed her and so did her parents, so she had no choice but to stay where she was and hope things would improve.

They did not. The country was on the verge of bankruptcy and needed a huge loan from America to keep afloat. Rations were cut yet again. They had never starved during the war, but some people were wondering if they might starve now. The Colemans, being farmers, fared better than most but, apart from a little pork, they relied on bought meat and there was now only a shilling's worth per person per week. As usual Rosie grumbled, though Doris was adept at making a little go a long way. Gordon shot rabbits and pigeons and these supplemented the meat. In spite of keeping the worst from him, Arthur grew more and more restless with bouts of angry frustration alternating with morose predictions of disaster. He wanted to be up doing something about it.

Jean was woken one day in August by a white-faced, trembling mother who was having trouble hanging onto her self control. ‘Jean, ring Doctor Norman. It's your father. He's …' She stopped, choking on a sob she was valiantly trying to hold back.

Jean scrambled out of bed. ‘Where is he?'

‘In bed. He must have …' She blinked hard. ‘Gone in his sleep.'

‘Oh, Mum.'

She flung her dressing gown on and rushed downstairs to her father's room, banging on Gordon's door as she passed it.

She dashed into the downstairs room that had become her father's bedroom. He lay as if asleep, but she knew it was a sleep from which he would not wake. She fell on her knees beside
his bed and took his hand, already growing cold. ‘Pa. Oh, Pa.'

Doris, followed by Gordon, still half asleep, came into the room and stood behind her. Jean rose from her knees and put her arms around her. ‘He is at peace, Mum.'

Gordon made a choking sound and hurried from the room.

‘He was a good man,' Doris said. She spoke quietly but there was a calmness about her that spoke of courage, not insensitivity. ‘He loved us all.'

‘I know, Mum, and we all loved him.'

‘He worked hard all his life and kept us fed and clothed, even through the depression and the war, until he had that stroke. Even then …' Her voice trailed away.

‘Yes.' Now the shock had passed, Jean could feel the tears gathering in her eyes but she blinked them back. If her mother could keep them at bay, so must she. ‘Sit down, Mum, stay with him for a bit. I'm going to see where Gordon's got to and ring the doctor and Don.' She helped her mother to sit in the chair by the bed, where she had sat so often to read the newspaper or the
Farmers Weekly
to him, and left the room. Only then did she weep.

The shock of Arthur's passing united the whole village in grief. He had been born and lived in the same house all his life, as his father had before him and his father before him. He had been part of the fabric of the village: reliable, opinionated, with a wry sense of humour, respected for his knowledge of the countryside. A steady stream of people came to the house to pay their respects and offer words of comfort. Some brought flowers, many offered help. They filed past his coffin which stood on trestles in the middle of the room where he had died. Bill came, genuinely distressed, bringing apologies from his mother. Jean thought
Mrs Howson had not forgiven her for turning Bill down. Mr and Mrs Harris and Mr and Mrs Maynard came, so too did the butcher, the baker and the blacksmith, old John Barry and even Ted Gould. Doris bore it all with a calmness that Jean envied. She wanted to scream, to shout at them to go away and leave them alone. Instead she followed her mother's example, thanked them for coming and quietly went on with the funeral arrangements, helped by her grandmother.

Gordon stomped about the farm, silently grieving. Jean did not try to comfort him, knowing he would push her away. Rosemary was quiet and bewildered, although Stanley kept her busy. Between them they coped, too busy in those early days to brood or have time to wonder what the future would be without the man of the house.

The Reverend Brotherton, who had been the first of their callers, apart from the undertaker, was to take the funeral service and afterwards there would be refreshments at the farmhouse. Jean wanted to employ a caterer, but her mother insisted on doing it herself. ‘It's the least I can do for him,' she said, as though he would know if she failed him. In a way, Jean understood that; Pa's presence was everywhere. Whatever she was doing, he was there beside her, instructing her, finding fault sometimes, sometimes praising. It was foolish, she knew, but she thought even the animals missed him.

The church was full for the funeral service. Almost every villager had taken time off to attend. Mrs Jackson came down with Terry and Lily and followed the family into the church behind the coffin. Terry was quite the young man, but Lily was the same lovable child she had always been.

The rector spoke of Arthur's stalwart loyalty to the community, his love of animals, particularly the horses, and his devotion to
his family. Gordon spoke a eulogy in a voice husky with emotion, though he tried to lighten it with a joke or two. Most of the congregation went back for refreshments at the farm which soon became noisy. An occasional laugh meant someone had told an amusing story. It was after they had all gone and only the family were left to sit looking at the crumb-laden plates, the dregs left in the wine glasses, the slowly stewing tea, that the truth really hit them and the tears flowed. Jean hugged her mother, Gordon hugged Rosie, Elizabeth hugged Donald, who was trying very hard to be brave.

Donald pulled away and went up to his room; no one tried to stop him. Rosie went to feed Stanley and Elizabeth set about clearing away the debris and washing-up. Jean and Doris went to help her. ‘We've got to settle things,' Doris said.

‘What do you mean?' Jean asked, though she had a very good idea. Arthur's only legacy had been the farm which was rented, his life insurance and a few hundred pounds in the bank. The farm would go to Gordon, Sir Edward had already told him that changing the name on the tenancy agreement was only a formality. Doris would have the insurance money to supplement her pension and the money, what little there was of it, was to be divided between his offspring. ‘You'll stay here now, won't you?'

‘It depends on Gordon. The farm is his now, but his family will grow.'

‘If anyone leaves, it will be me,' Jean said. She had been thinking of doing that for some time, but had been putting off doing anything about it until Karl came back. If he came back. She was beginning to doubt it. He had gone from her life almost as if he had never been part of it, but he had left his mark, just as Pa had done, and neither could be erased from her thoughts or her heart.

Karl straightened his aching back and looked about him. He was in the middle of a field of mangel-wurzels, rows and rows of them. They were used for animal feed, not human consumption, though it didn't stop people from raiding the field at night. He worked in a gang, some of them freed prisoners of war, as he was. They toiled for long hours, pulling the crop out of the ground, chopping off the heads and throwing the roots into a cart pulled by a thin horse. On the far side of the field he could see barges and a few sailing craft, making their way slowly along the Mittelland Canal.

‘Where are they bound?' he asked Herman Buchmann, the man who owned the field and had been working beside him.

Buchmann shrugged. ‘Anywhere between the Rheine and Berlin.'

‘They are allowed to cross the border, then?'

‘If they have the right papers, yes. Are you contemplating a voyage?'

‘I might be.' He had thought of taking a train but he knew there would be a lengthy stop at the border for papers to be examined and the only ones he had were those given to him in Munsterlager and, if Elise was right, they would hinder rather than help him. Going by road needed a vehicle and he did not have one.

‘Risky.'

‘I know. Do you know anyone who might take me?'

‘I might. Meet me tomorrow evening at the Café Lotte.'

Café Lotte was a meeting place where it was possible to sit over a cup of coffee or a tankard of beer all evening, smoke a cigarette if you had one, and set the world to rights. Karl went there sometimes in the evening to relieve the boredom of life with
three women with whom he had nothing in common. The main topic of conversation was the shortage of everything. In rural Lower Saxony they had not witnessed the Allies' destruction of the factories and industries that had supplied the war effort, but the economic result of their disappearance was felt all over the country. The gloomiest said Germany would never recover; those of a more optimistic frame of mind said that once they rid themselves of the occupying forces, they could please themselves with what they manufactured. He listened to the debate but did not take part.

The next evening he found Herman there with another man whom he introduced as Johannes Brand, a Dutchman from Enschede just over the border with the Netherlands. Johannes had a barge on which he transported some of the produce of Holland to the Soviet zone and brought back watches and cameras and artwork. Karl explained his mission. ‘Can you take me?'

‘I do not suppose you have papers allowing you to travel?' He spoke
Plattdeutsch
, a local dialect close to Dutch, but he easily understood standard German.

‘No, only those given to me on my discharge.'

‘It will cost you.'

‘I expected that.'

‘I will be passing by Herman's field at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. If I see you on the bank, I will stop for you, but I shall not wait for you. You will need to bring food and money, as much of both as you can. My vessel is called the
Wilhelmina
.' He drained his glass and stood up.
‘Bis Morgen.'
And he was gone.

Elise was not pleased when he told her of his plans. They had come to rely on his wages along with hers and now he was
going to abandon them. Not only that, he proposed taking some of their precious food. He placated them with the gift of his pyjamas, spare shirts, his razor and all but one spare pair of socks, which Maria could barter. The rest of his belongings made a very small bundle.

‘If you must, you must,' she said. ‘But if you are arrested, do not say I did not warn you.'

The next morning she made up a parcel of all the food they could spare and kissed him. ‘God keep you safe, brother. Give our parents my love. Tell them I am well and happy. And come back safely.'

He hugged her, shouldered his kit bag and set off to go to work as usual. At half past nine he nodded to Herman, picked up his bundle and crossed the field to the canal bank. The barge was not yet in sight. He watched the river traffic, scanning the names of the barges and wondering if he was being led on a wild goose chase when he spotted what he was looking for. He found a place where it was easy to get to the water's edge and waited there until the barge drew up alongside. He jumped aboard before it stopped and they were on their way.

Johannes shook his hand. ‘You have brought the money?'

‘Thirty
Reichsmark
and ten English pound notes.' He knew he would have to pay in advance and had the money ready.