Whisper on the Wind (69 page)

‘
So sad a new year?
’ Kath frowned. ‘Look – are you sure –’

‘Go on. Read it all – and the letter.’

‘All right, then.’ Kath read the flowing words, then read them again, just to be sure. Then she lifted her eyes to those of her friend and whispered, ‘Poor, poor lady. Loving Martin, loving Ridings the way she did – and no son. Ever. Cursed? You might almost believe it is, Roz.’

‘You might, because we are. But think, Kath. Just
think …
’

‘Yes, but what about? She was a lovely person. She didn’t deserve that.’

‘No, she didn’t, Kath. And nor did my mother, nor me!’

‘Oh,
no
!’ She was on her feet in an instant, hugging herself, walking up and down as she always did when upset. ‘Haemophilia? Isn’t that the one – that – that’s –’

‘Handed down? That’s the one. From Gran to my mother and from my mother, to me. Oh! I don’t blame Gran entirely. Neither she nor her sister knew about it when they married – a just cause or impediment
that
would have been, and no mistake. But my mother had me, Kath, and she shouldn’t have. Gran should have told her.’

‘Maybe she did tell her? Maybe your mother and father were so much in love that –’ She ran her tongue round her lips, then whispered, ‘Well, you above all should understand, Roz. You know what it’s like to love a man without rhyme or reason.’

‘Yes, I do. But Gran should have warned me.’

‘And if she had, would it have made any difference?’

‘No. But I could have told Paul – given him the chance to back away, to finish it between us.’

‘And would he have?’ Kath demanded, crossly. ‘Would either of you have accepted that? You know you wouldn’t. All you could have done was to have been a bit more careful. When you love someone like that – well, I do understand, Roz.’

‘I know you do. But what’s to become of this poor little baby? I want it so much – I still want it to be a son. It’s wicked of me, but I do.’

‘A part of Paul? Don’t you think I wouldn’t have loved Marco’s son the same way? A little living image of his father? But a son very often looks like his mother. You might have a little boy just like you; stubborn and quick-tempered and red-headed into the bargain.’ Why she was saying something so facetious she didn’t honestly know, because it was awful – really awful – if what Roz had stumbled on was true. ‘But are you sure there isn’t a mistake, love? I know it was a shock to you – but mightn’t you, if you’d read on a bit more, have found somewhere that they’d got it all wrong? Haemophilia must have got into your Gran’s family somehow, somewhere, so couldn’t there be a time it could have left it? Maybe you are all right, Roz – tell Dr Stewart about it? He might even tell you that it burns itself out, or something, after two generations. It just
mightn’t
be as bad as you think. You ought to see him. Worrying yourself to death is the last thing Sprog needs. That little baby has had all the shocks he can take, if you ask me.’

‘Yes. Tell the doctor. That’s exactly what Jonty said.’

‘Jonty knows?’

‘He came over. I was in such a panic that I rang him and he came straight away. Then this afternoon he came again, but he couldn’t stay long – it was his turn for Sunday milking. But he came …’

He came. He always would. Jonty would never be far away when Roz needed him, Kath acknowledged silently, sadly. He’d said he would be, the afternoon they had heard about Peg Bailey. They’d leaned on the gate and talked about – oh, all sorts of things. But especially about Roz being in love with Paul.

‘Be there, if she needs you,’ she asked of him though there had been no need to say it.

‘I still think you should do what he says – tell the doctor, Roz.’

‘I will. I shall have to. But the last time I went to the surgery he said I was fine and there was no need for me to go back for a while; not unless the sickness got worse, that was. And it hasn’t. It’s a whole lot better, in fact.

‘“Call in some time in September,” he said. “By then you’ll be about half way and you’ll have felt the baby moving. We’ll have a good look at you, then.” That’s what he said, Kath, so why don’t I leave it at that? Can’t I pretend – for just a little bit longer – that everything is all right?’

‘Okay – but just as long as you tell him. And as long as you don’t worry too much. Sprog can do without worry, don’t forget.’

‘Yes.’ She let go a sigh of relief. ‘And nobody knows but you and Jonty. I haven’t told Polly, nor Grace and Mat. Let’s leave it as it is, shall we, because I couldn’t bear to see the pity in their eyes. Not a word, Kath?’

‘Not a whisper and – oh, come here, will you?’ She held wide her arms and Roz went into them gladly. Kath held her tightly and whispered, ‘I said we’d love this little baby a million, no matter what. We might even love him a bit more, now.’

‘We will. Oh dear, he’s going to grow up to be as spoiled as Barney, isn’t he?’

Kath said perish the thought, but he probably would. Spoiled something awful.

But neither of them laughed.

Last year at this time, Roz considered, she hadn’t even known Paul existed yet now, on this eighth day of August – the day on which clocks were put back and one of the hours stolen from night-time to help the war effort given back – she had met and loved and lost him. Soon the days would be shortening and by the end of the month, blackout curtains would be drawn by nine o’clock, though the day would be bright again, long before six in the morning.

Long before six, Roz brooded, leaning on the gate-top, chin on hand, Grace would be up, making morning drinkings for Mat and Jonty, coaxing a reluctant herd to the milking shed.

The far cornfield looked ready for harvesting, her countrywoman’s eye told her; the ears of wheat golden brown, now, and if she were nearer, she would hear it swish and sigh as the breeze gentled through it to bend the poppies and daisies growing around the headlands of the field. Last year had been her first harvest; she was still a child, then, with not a worry in the world, save that somewhere beyond the bounds of Alderby St Mary a war raged – and that the faceless ones in London had announced the rationing of clothing and shoes.

Then suddenly Peddlesbury Manor, empty and decaying for almost a decade, came alive, the trees in its parkland torn out by the roots, and a squadron of Lancasters roared in. And Paul came.

But she didn’t want her innocence back. She wanted Paul with every breath she took; with every beat of her cold, aching heart. Please don’t let the bombers be operational, tonight, she silently begged; bombers that would heave themselves into the sky like over-full birds, fighting gravity until they became airborne and graceful once more, high in the evening sky. Please not tonight again the thrash and roar of take-off, because she still counted, still sent them on their way with fear and love, and still awoke to the first faint throb of homecoming engines.

To her left, to the east over Peddlesbury Wood, the moon was rising, big and round and gold. Soon it would be high in a darkening sky, silver-blue. No more August moons, Paul; no more bombers’ moons, my love.

‘Roz!’ Kath was calling her, walking through the ruins carrying a bright red cardigan. ‘There you are! Here, now, put this on or you’ll catch a chill. What are you doing out here?’ Kath, mothering and fussing; always caring for her.

‘I was watching the moon rise. Look at it, Kath. Huge, isn’t it?’

‘And beautiful,’ Kath breathed. But everything was beautiful and now she need never leave it. ‘Supper’s ready – only vegetable pie, but –’

Vegetable pie. An assortment of unrationed vegetables mixed with yesterday’s left-over gravy and topped with a suet crust.

‘I think Mat will be starting to cut the wheat any day now,’ Roz remarked, shrugging into the cardigan. ‘And next year, there’ll be wheat and barley on Ridings land, Kath. Next year –’ She stopped, eyes sad. ‘By next year, I wonder what will have happened?’

‘I don’t know. One day at a time, didn’t we say?’ She didn’t want to think about seeing the solicitor at York, or that soon she must tell Grace and Mat about the divorce. Mat had agreed at once when she had asked to change her rest-day from Sunday to Wednesday – without even asking her why, he’d said it was all right. ‘I shall tell Grace about me and Barney,’ she murmured as they walked across the grass to the yard gates. ‘It’s only fair.’

‘And about Marco, too?’

‘No. Not just yet. Not unless he manages to get a letter to me. I’ll tell her, if he does. But one day at a time is best. I’m only glad the solicitor Mr Dunston is sending me to is a woman. I won’t feel so bad, talking about things to a woman.’

‘Yes – and then it’ll really get moving.’

But as Kath said, one day at a time, because she was beginning to learn that it didn’t do to make plans or to look forward with hope. Not if you were a Fairchild.

‘By the way, I told Grace about Barney and me this morning.’ Kath picked up a sheaf of wheat.

‘Was she shocked? Bet she was. Grace thinks all marriages are made in heaven, like her own.’

‘Not shocked,’ Kath frowned. ‘More disappointed, and hurt for me when I told her about it – well, about
some
of it. She was more worried, I think, about what will happen to me now – a poor, discarded woman.’

‘Then I hope you told her you’ll be staying on at Ridings and that one day you’ll be living in the gate lodge?’

‘I did, and it seemed to satisfy her. But Grace judges all men by Mat’s standards, and I suppose you can’t blame her for not understanding. Well – just try to imagine Mat going off the rails? Or Jonty, either. I said she could tell them about it but not to let it go any farther – well, you know what they’re like in Alderby.’

‘I know.’ Roz counted the sheaves. Ten to each stook. Stooking was considered a woman’s job at harvest time and to make a stook, Kath had quickly learned, was to lay the sheaves together to form an ark; a tentlike shape with five sheaves on one side leaning against five on the other and a gap at the bottom for the breeze to blow through.

‘How soon will the wheat be dry?’ Kath asked of Grace who had come into the field carrying drinkings; a jug of tea, and water in screw-topped bottles to be laid in the shade of the hedge, for coolness.

‘Mat always gives it three clear Sundays after cutting. Always three Sundays, he reckons it takes.’

‘That’s a long time …’

‘Happen. But it took a long time to plough the fields and sow the seed, didn’t it; and time for it to grow and to ripen. So you don’t spoil it, lass, for the sake of the odd Sunday. Farming takes time. And patience.’

‘And a great deal of fortitude,’ Roz smiled, ‘when the barley is harvested. No bare arms, then. Barley horns are like little sharp needles, Kath, and it’s arms covered and shirts buttoned to the neck, isn’t it, Grace?’

‘It is, my word. But I’ll have to be getting back; dinner doesn’t cook itself. You’ll both be eating at Home Farm, today?’

‘Please. What is it?’ Roz was suddenly, amazingly hungry.

‘Rabbit pie, wouldn’t you know, and gooseberry tart to follow. And custard. The Lord bless rabbits,’ Grace murmured, though after this war was over she had taken a solemn vow never to cook another rabbit again. ‘Marco liked rabbit pie, didn’t he? Poor lad. I wonder where he is. We shall miss him, you know, before this harvest is over.’

‘Miss him,’ Kath whispered as Grace walked through the wide-open field gate. Oh, Grace – if only you knew. ‘Why is there such a stigma attached to divorce?’ she demanded, for no reason at all that she could think of.

‘
And
unmarried mothers …’

‘Because I’m the innocent party, Roz. Why
should
people point a finger at me?’

‘And Sprog is a love child, and wanted …’

‘Do you suppose it’s because we’re young? Do you suppose Those Up There are old and grizzled and jealous of us? Is it wrong, to be young?’

‘And foolish, sometimes?’

‘Oh, Roz, how long is this war going to last?’ All their precious years, was it to take? Would they, too, be old and grizzled and jealous before it was over?

‘Don’t know, old love. I’d make a fortune, if I did.’ Roz waved to Jonty who had seen the arrival of drinkings and was walking toward them, rubbing the small of his back. ‘Come on – let’s take a break for five minutes. I could do with a drink of water. I don’t suppose Grace has told Jonty, yet, about you and Barney. Why don’t you tell him, now? He’ll understand, Kath.’

‘Yes. I think he will.’ Of course he would understand. Jonty Ramsden was like that. Just about the nicest man she knew, in fact. Pity that Roz couldn’t think the same.

‘We’ll be done by St Matthew’s day,’ Mat said, relieved that the corn harvest was well-dried, stored in stacks and barns. ‘And the stacks thatched and netted, long before Michaelmas.’

But he had known this would be a good harvest, for hadn’t the first day of September dawned gently and lengthened into a glorious day, with the air clear and bright – golden, almost. And those who worked the land knew that a fine first day of September promised good weather for the remainder of the month. Mat had had his three clear Sundays and now the wheat and barley were almost in, the harvest finished, save for this one last load to be pulled by Duke to the stack. All that was left, now, were fields of bristly yellow stubble. Even the small creatures who had lived in the shelter of the cornfields all summer – fieldmice, voles and shrews, white-tailed baby rabbits – had fled the flailing blades of the reaper and found shelter in woods and hedgerows nearby, leaving the fields to starlings and sparrows to scavenge for fallen grain.