Peter Lovesey - Rough Cider

Some girls would have resorted to tickling. Barbara was smarter. She grabbed the gun from Duke’s pocket and pointed it at him. Harry shouted a warning, for this had become a dangerous game. Duke handed over the scarf, and Barbara slung the gun as far aside as she could and ran on alone. She’d had enough.

I remember that when I retrieved the gun and handed it to Duke, he checked that it wasn’t loaded. None of us had been certain when Barbara pointed it at him. He still had a few loose cartridges in his pocket. He emptied them into the drawer of the hallstand when we got back to the farm. The gun was also deposited there. I’m certain of this, which I told Superintendent Judd, who interviewed me before the trial.

The cider pressing went on through the next week, and we didn’t see the GIs again until it was almost over. They drove out to see us on the last Thursday afternoon in November, their Thanksgiving. I doubt whether the Lockwoods had ever heard of the occasion. I certainly hadn’t, but I was highly gratified to receive as a present from Duke the carved figure of the policeman that I was eventually to give to Alice.

The GIs had planned a surprise. There was to be a party at the base with a buffet of roast turkey and pumpkin pie. They’d already collected Sally from the pub, and she was sitting on Harry’s lap in the front of the jeep with her frilly petticoat showing. Everyone was in high spirits. I mean ourselves as much as the Yanks, because the last load of apples was in the cider loft, and Mr. Lockwood had shown his appreciation at lunchtime by offering extra cider from last year’s vintage. The farmhands had been allowed to leave early, and only the family was still about.

For me it had been school as usual. Since getting back, I’d been in the cider loft helping Bernard and his father to mill the last of the apples. The mechanism made a tremendous noise, and I wouldn’t have known that the jeep was in the yard if I hadn’t happened to spot the movement through the open door. I jumped onto the trailer outside, climbed down, and ran to welcome Duke just as Mrs. Lockwood was coming out to offer them hot scones and cream.

First they wanted to tell Barbara about the Thanksgiving party, so that she could get ready. Mrs. Lockwood informed them in her placid voice that the two hours between four and six was Barbara’s time for rounding up the cows and milking them. She’d started earlier than usual that afternoon, so she should soon be free, and she was certain to be excited at the prospect of a party.

I listened to this with mixed feelings, considering that it was little more than a month since I’d been slippered for refusing to speak about Barbara’s meetings with Duke. The Lockwoods seemed to have revised their opinion. Duke’s stock had risen rapidly since he and Harry had made them-selves so useful on the farm. For her part, Barbara still wanted it understood that her occasional evenings out were spent walking with Sally, but I’m damn sure that if she’d admitted she was seeing Duke, there’d have been no objection.

I’ve sometimes asked myself whether I was secretly or subconsciously jealous of Duke. I can truthfully answer that I felt no animus towards him at any time, even after what ultimately happened. I couldn’t dislike him. Between them, he and Barbara got me through what could have been the most desolate months of my life. Yes, I’ll admit to a slight pang of rejection when they were seeing each other and I wasn’t asked along, but that didn’t amount to jealousy.

To come back to that fated afternoon, Duke and Harry went to look for Barbara in the field beyond the copse. The milking was done in the open air, from mobile sheds that were known as bails. The cows on Gifford Farm stayed out night and day, well into the winter months.

The rest of us, including Sally, made a start on the scones in the farmhouse kitchen. Mrs. Lockwood said she’d keep a second batch warm for the others, but it was never needed. After fifteen minutes or so, the GIs came back and reported that they couldn’t find Barbara.

No one could understand why. She’d definitely said she was going to start the milking. There followed a confusing exchange between Bernard and Harry about which field they’d looked in, but as Duke pointed out, there was only one herd of cows, and Barbara wasn’t with them. It was obvious to anyone that they hadn’t been milked yet.

Mr. Lockwood said he’d take a look round after he’d put another load in the cider mill. Quite soon we were all engaged in a search. Mrs. Lockwood ventured the theory that possibly the cider at lunchtime had affected Barbara and she was resting somewhere.

I’m not going to make a suspense story out of this. Things that happen to people you love-appalling, deeply distressing things-are difficult enough to articulate, anyway. I was the one who found Barbara. Some instinct or intuition led me into one of the smaller barns, set back from the main cluster of farm buildings.

At first glance it looked an unlikely place for her to be, for it was three-quarters stacked with hay. Then I heard a scuffling sound, too heavy for a rat. It came from the loft that extended halfway under the roof. Bales of hay were stacked there too. I couldn’t see a ladder, so I used the bales as steps. There was a five-foot wall of hay confronting me when I reached the loft. By then I was certain there was someone behind it, for I could hear quite vigorous movements; so forceful, in fact, that I was discouraged from calling out.

I couldn’t believe it was Barbara.

I worked my way along the barrier of hay and located a triangular space where the last bale met the angle of the roof. By squeezing sideways between the rafters and the hay, I managed to penetrate far enough to get a narrow view of the other side.

What I saw was my poor, gentle Barbara being raped by Cliff Morton. When I say raped, I’m using an adult term for an act that wasn’t comprehensible to me at that age, if it is now. A violent, indecent, and humiliating attack by a strong man on a powerless woman. He was thrusting into her like a rutting stag while she struggled and gasped, beating her fists on the loft floor. Her blouse was open to the waist, and her overalls and knickers had been dragged down and were trapped round one of her legs below the knee.

There was nothing I could do except jump down from the loft and run frantically to find someone, anyone. Fate decreed that it was Duke.

He was coming out of the shed where the farm machinery was stored. I shouted to him that Barbara was in the small barn, and the man Cliff had taken off her clothes and was hurting her. Duke didn’t say a word. He dashed past me across the yard to the barn. I ran on, crying, to the farmhouse where Mrs. Lockwood was talking to Sally, and blurted out what I’d seen. I told them Duke had gone in there. I couldn’t do any more.

Mrs. Lockwood ran out, leaving Sally and me in the kitchen. After about five minutes she came back with her arm around Barbara, who was sobbing hysterically. They went straight up to Barbara’s bedroom.

The only thing I remember about that day is much later, lying in bed. Mrs. Lockwood was leaning over me, giving me something to drink. I asked if Barbara was going to be all right, and she said yes, she would be all right, and I was to get some sleep.

They kept me indoors most of the next day. As soon as I got up, I asked about Barbara and was told she was resting, but I noticed that the curtains of her bedroom weren’t drawn. That night I could hear her sobbing.

I didn’t ever see her again. The next memory I have is the hammering on Sunday morning when they had to break down her door. And the screaming when they found her dead. She’d cut her own throat with her father’s razor.

Later that morning my headmaster, Mr. Lillicrap, collected me from the house. On Monday one of the teachers took me back in the train to London and home. I wasn’t evacuated again.