Whisper on the Wind (48 page)

Why wasn’t his father here, and his mother? How was he to cope with Roz’s grief? And what kind of a war was it that gunned down a helpless woman?

‘Let’s get her home,’ he said again.

The back door at Ridings was low and wide and took the field gate easily. They laid her on the kitchen floor then Jonty took the cloth from the table and laid it over her.

‘Go and tell Kath, will you, Marco? She’d best be here when I tell Roz. Can you go to Polly’s? And see if Mum’s home yet?’

He filled a glass with water and drank deeply, reluctant to look down. The world had gone mad and there was worse to come. He didn’t know how he’d tell Roz. Every instinct rebelled against saying the words that would tear her world apart.

He walked to the back door and sat on the step, arms on knees, head bent, waiting.

The sound of running feet caused his head to jerk up. Roz and Kath, white-faced, in spite of their exertion. He jumped to his feet, running his tongue round suddenly-dry lips.

‘Someone’s been hurt? Who is it, Jonty?’ Her eyes were wide, wild with fear. ‘It isn’t Gran. It
isn’t
!’

He took her arm, unwilling to let her go inside, to come upon it so suddenly. She struggled to free herself, but he held her tightly.

‘Let me
go
!’ Fear gave her strength. She pushed him from her and ran into the kitchen.

‘
Gran
!’ Her cry was harsh, dragged disbelieving from her tight, terrified throat. Why was she so still? Impatiently, angrily, she threw aside the cloth that covered her then opened her mouth to an anguished, animal wail. She had not seen death before. Blindly she turned into the waiting arms. ‘Jonty, she isn’t, is she?’ Soundless sobs shook her body. ‘She
isn’t …
’

‘Hush, now.’ He pulled her closer, his hand cradling her head, forcing it against his shoulder so she should not look down again. ‘Roz, I’m sorry, so sorry …’

‘Sorry, yes …’ There was an ache in the pit of her abdomen; a gnawing pain. She wanted to be sick. The need was jerking about inside her with every frightened spasm.

‘Ssssh …’ He was patting her, hushing her, stroking her hair; afraid to let her go from his arms lest she slip away in a faint at his feet.

‘Kath?’ His eyes begged her help.

‘Come away, Roz. Come outside till the ambulance comes?’

Her voice shook; it hurt her throat to speak. None of this was happening. On a June day that danced in the heat with a sky so clear, so blue it couldn’t be. This wasn’t a day for dying. Not Mrs Fairchild. Not anyone.

Jonty swallowed hard as if to rid his mouth of death and disgust. His eyes went with the stumbling figures, each supporting the other. He wished he could weep.

They had given it out on the six o’clock news bulletin that a Royal Air Force fighter had buzzed enemy-occupied Paris, flying in dangerously low, dropping the Tricolor near the tomb of France’s Unknown Warrior. An act of chivalry, of defiant bravado, said some. All very fine, said others, but wouldn’t that fighter have been better employed in the skies over Malta, or in North Africa? Those who lived in Alderby St Mary thought much the same, except that it might have been better still had that fighter of ours been here, over Peddlesbury this afternoon. It need never have happened, then. The war had taken three from Alderby already. From a hamlet not worth a dot on a map, two young men and a girl had been killed, now Mrs Fairchild, and her doing no more harm than walking past one of her own fields.

The last war had been terrible to a degree, they all agreed on that, but it had been fought in another country. This war was the people’s war, brought to them from the air. Soldier or civilian, woman or child, none felt safe. And ill-luck had come again to the Fairchilds. Only young Roz was left, now, they thought in their stunned disbelief. A lass not yet of age had inherited their troubles.

Once, in the proud times, a Fairchild could look from any upstairs window and know that all he saw was his. Now, the last of them lived in a ruin and worked on the land as if she were the same as anyone else. Who among them would have thought when they got out of bed this morning that the war would be back on their doorsteps before nightfall? By the heck, but it made you think …

‘How did you find her?’

‘Stunned, Mat. White as a little ghost and not a tear to be seen. It’s all wrong. She ought to cry. I didn’t want to leave her.’

‘She’s in good hands.’ Mat gathered his wife to him, patting her back with big, awkward hands. ‘There’s Polly with her, and Kath.’

‘I know. It’s awful that Roz is so alone now, and her not understanding rightly that it’s happened to her. Yet this war goes on and the world hasn’t stopped its turning …’

‘Don’t take on, lass.’ He knew what she meant. Jonty was back in Ten-acre field with the hay, himself and Marco had seen to the cows and the dairy work, in spite of what had happened. But a farm couldn’t stand still; not even for death. Cows must be milked twice a day, seven days a week, crops harvested and animals fed. Even on Christmas Day.

‘I’m not taking on. I know the way it is.’ With fingers still clumsy from shock, Grace set the kettle to boil. She had known something was wrong the minute she’d stepped off the bus, else why was Mat waiting there for her, grave-faced, when he should have been in Beck Lane? Jonty? An accident with the mower, she’d thought, cold with sudden fear. He’d taken her shopping bag from her then laid an arm on her shoulder and told her. She hadn’t believed it; hadn’t even known there’d been a raid. No siren had sounded in Helpsley – not that she had heard.

Near Ten-acre field, Mat said it had been, but they did that all the time now; our own fighters did the same over the Continent, shooting-up ammunition trains, gun emplacements. Daylight sweeps, we called them. Nuisance raids the Nazis said they were. But surely our own fighter pilots didn’t shoot at civilians working in the fields, nor an elderly woman walking in a lane?

‘I’ll make us a cup of tea, Mat.’ She was still shaking inside, still fighting the tears she knew she must soon give in to. Just one kind word from Mat, and that would be it. She’d cry and cry until she was sick.

Damn this war! Damn it, and the madmen who’d started it!

‘Here you are, then.’ Polly placed cup and saucer, rattling in her agitated hand, at Roz’s side. ‘Drink it while it’s hot.’

Polly had not wept. Mrs Fairchild would not have broken down – not in public – and nor would she. Later, when Arnie was asleep and the little lodge was quiet, she would give way to her grief. But not here, not yet, whilst Roz needed her; pale-faced, dry-eyed Roz who stared at the floor where the Mistress had lain before the ambulance men took her; stared at the smudge of blood on the floor tile that she, Polly, hadn’t had the courage to wipe away.

Jonty and the prisoner had gone, taking the field gate with them – work never stopped on a farm.

‘Sorry, Polly. I couldn’t …’ The terrible ache was still inside her and she still wanted to be sick. ‘Sorry …’

‘A cigarette?’ Kath lit one then placed it between Roz’s fingers.

‘Thanks, Kath.’ She drew on it, deep and long. ‘What time is it?’

‘Half-past six. Will I go and find Arnie, Polly – bring him in?’

‘Thanks, Kath, but leave him. He’s in the garden; said he didn’t want to come in. Best I take him home, poor bairn; see if he wants any supper.’ She walked wearily to the door, as if the happenings of the day had been too much for her. ‘I’ll be back, later on …’

There were things to be seen to, things to be arranged and all Roz had done was to sit there, staring and smoking, and wild-eyed as though any minute she’d break into terrible screaming.

‘No. Stay at home with Arnie. Kath’s here and Grace said she’d be back later. And thanks, Polly. Come tomorrow as usual, will you?’

‘All right. Tomorrow, then. If you’re sure?’

Kath followed Polly to the door then out into the yard. ‘What’ll I do?’ she demanded, stiff-lipped.

‘Stay by her. Don’t let her go off on her own. She’s not with us. In shock. A good weep, that’s what she needs. I’ll be back early tomorrow, but happen it might be best if someone’s with her tonight. Could you stay, Kath?’

‘I’ll try. I’ll ring the hostel and ask the Warden.’

‘Aye. Do that.’

Polly walked into the garden, calling softly for Arnie. Her back was straight, her head high. No tears. Not in public. Later, though. Tonight she would cry and sob and rant until she made herself badly.

Roz took a sip from the cup then put it down, choking.

‘Polly’s put too much sugar in,’ she offered in answer to Kath’s raised eyebrows.

‘You’ll have to eat something, Roz. Grace left milk – won’t you try a glass of milk?’

‘No, thanks. Nothing. I want Paul, though. Oh, I know he shouldn’t come here the minute Gran’s –’ She stopped, not able to say the word. ‘I mean I –’

‘I know, love. You just want to be with him,’ Kath supplied gently. ‘Shall I try to get him on the phone?’

‘Would you? The switchboard mightn’t accept the call, though. They don’t, if the squadron’s going to be on ops. Security …’

‘Helpsley 217, isn’t it?’

‘Extension thirty-nine.’ Roz nodded.

The switchboard at RAF Peddlesbury accepted the call. Kath gave Roz a thumbs-up sign then asked for the extension number.

‘Sorry,’ said the operator. ‘I’m getting no reply from thirty-nine. Anywhere else I can try?’

‘No – but thanks a lot.’ She smiled, replacing the receiver. ‘No reply, but I got through all right, so they shouldn’t be operational tonight. What’ll you do, Roz? Where are you meeting him?’

‘Same time – half-past seven, Peddlesbury Lane. You couldn’t go there, Kath? If we can’t get hold of him, will you go?’

‘Of course I will – if you’ll drink some milk.’

‘No. No, I
couldn’t.
’ She walked to the sink and filled a glass at the tap, drinking deeply. ‘Kath – it’s true, isn’t it? It
did
happen?’ She was gripping the sinkstone tightly as if she might fall if she let go her hold. ‘It
was
Gran they took away …’

Unspeaking, Kath nodded then spun round, startled, at the knocking on the door. Almost with relief she opened it to Marco. His hair was tidily combed, his face sad; he was wearing his brown jacket.

‘Kat – how is Roz? I worry for her. I think that maybe I can give her comfort, tell her that –’

‘Who is it?’ Roz stood behind them. ‘Marco?’ She held out a hand and he took it in his own, kissing it briefly, his eyes on hers.

‘I come to tell you, Roz. I think it will help – is it right that I come in?’

‘It’s right, Marco, though I’m a bit bewildered. But come in.’ Gran wouldn’t have liked it; wouldn’t have allowed it, but for all that she held open the door.

‘Mrs Ramsden said I should come – tell you. She said it perhaps would help.’

‘Help?’ Kath queried.

‘
Si.
Bring comfort. I was with the
signora
when it happened, Roz. I wasn’t able to get to her in time – not to save her, but she was alive. For a little while she was alive and she spoke …’

‘Marco!’ Roz’s head shot up. ‘What did she say to you?’

‘Not to me. Not to Marco. I put my arms around her and held her and she think I am Martin. “Is that you, Martin?” she say and I tell her yes. I didn’t know, then, who he was, but I kissed her for him and she smiled. She thought I was Martin.’

‘Martin was her husband – my grandfather. She never stopped loving him. I’m glad she died in his arms. Thank you, Marco …’

‘
Si.
She smiled. It was peaceful for her. I wanted you to know she was not alone.’

‘Yes.’ She touched his cheek with her fingertips. ‘I’m grateful to you; I truly am.’

‘And you are comforted, Roz?’

‘I’m comforted.’ Her smile was gentle. ‘More than you’ll know.’

‘Aunty Poll – you won’t let them hurt you? You won’t go away and leave me?’

Arnie knew that big boys who were nearly ten should not cry but sometimes, when it was worse than going to the dentist, worse than going back to Hull, even, you had to. Mrs Fairchild had been his friend.

He reached up from his bed, clasping Polly tightly, burying his face in the folds of her pinafore. Life without Aunty Poll was unthinkable and unbearable and all at once he was afraid.

‘Hurt me? Your Aunty Poll go away? And who’s to see to things at Ridings if I was to do that? Now see you here, lad; old Kaiser Bill couldn’t frighten me so I’ll be blowed if a little pipsqueak like Hitler can do it. Anyway, lightning don’t strike twice – not in the same place. Stop your fretting, lad. Your Aunty Poll isn’t leaving you, and that’s a promise. So get yourself off to sleep – try not to think; just close your eyes. Mrs Fairchild is with God now. Nothing can harm her any more.’

With her Martin, she was. Her loneliness was over. They were together again.

Don’t you fret none, ma’am. I’ll look after Roz like we always said. I’ll do what’s right, you know I will.

‘What will you do, Roz?’ Kath counted the cigarettes in her packet then resolutely pushed it back in her pocket. Only three left and Roz might have need of them tonight. ‘I mean – how do you stand, now?’