Roland Moore - Land Girls - The Promise - A moving and heartwarming wartime saga

“Joyce stays here whenever she can,” John explained. He revealed that they had a system. Joyce would wait for Esther to go to bed and then creep over in the middle of the night. Then, after spending the night together, they would get up early and Joyce would hurry back to Pasture Farm before everyone woke up. Even though they were married, they knew that Esther wouldn’t condone Joyce spending anything other than Friday and Saturday nights at Shallow Brook Farm. It would be a distraction from her work and commitments as a Land Girl.

“But, why?” Iris asked. “Connie is allowed to live at the vicarage with Henry. Why can’t you live here with John?”

“It’s not fair, is it?” Joyce said, glancing at John, to perhaps indicate that they had discussed this same imbalance many times. “Truth is, Connie got permission from Lady Hoxley. And because she was married to a vicar, that was somehow all right. I asked and Lady Hoxley turned up her nose. It’s simply one rule for the wife of a clergyman and another rule for the rest of us.”

“She did agree to two nights a week, but wanted Joyce to spend most of her time at Pasture Farm,” John said, trying to be diplomatic. The last thing he wanted was to upset Lady Hoxley and find himself turfed out on his ear.

“I’m the most senior, apart from Esther,” Joyce said, refusing to let the matter go.

“You’ve been there longest, that’s all.” John laughed. He turned to Iris. “Truth is, we don’t mind -”

“We do bloody mind,” Joyce snapped. “I want to stay here all the time!”

“It’s exciting this way. We feel it’s dangerous,’ John added. ‘Which it is, if we get caught.”

Joyce looked imploringly at Iris. Iris knew what she was about to say and got there first.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to say anything.”

John smiled his thanks and went through to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Joyce raised an eyebrow to Iris. “And I won’t tell Esther about that new bottle of whisky you keep in your room.” Iris wondered how Joyce knew, but Joyce explained, “I could smell it on your breath, so I put two and two together.” The bottom line was that they understood each another. They walked through to join John in the kitchen. As he poured the tea, Joyce asked Iris what she thought about Finch being in love. Iris hadn’t given it much thought. But she felt it was strange seeing Finch all dressed up and smart.

“I keep thinking he’s off to see the bank manager.” Iris laughed.

“Yes, he’s certainly improved the way he’s turned out,” Joyce said. “I haven’t seen her. Have you seen her?”

“I saw her briefly in the village, when I was delivering eggs.” Iris nodded. “Seemed a very attractive older woman.”

“He’s done well for himself,” John smiled, stirring the pot with a teaspoon. Joyce shot him a look, realising that he knew full well he was being playful with his comments about another woman’s attractiveness. He knew it would get a rise out of his wife. Joyce bristled and tried to resist the urge to fall into his trap.

“Yeah, but what does she see in him?” Joyce asked. “I mean, he’s funny and warm, but he’s no oil painting.”

“Isn’t funny and warm enough?” John teased.

“Maybe.” Joyce frowned. “I just worry she’s after his money.”

“What money?” Iris laughed. “Until two weeks ago, his trousers were held up with string!”

“But that’s just it. He’s got the money squirrelled away to buy himself a smart suit, a hat and a thick coat. He’s been saving it up for years, all that money from his scams and wages. Think on, Iris. Men like that keep fortunes under their beds.”

“Maybe we should keep an eye on things. See what she’s after, then?” Iris asked. Something else was bothering her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Before she could try to identify what it was, the conversation continued, further distracting her.

“Or we should just keep our noses out of it and let him get on with it. Now, drink your tea,” John scolded. It was too early in the morning for all this gossip.

Joyce went to sip her cup, but John took it away. He smiled at her playfully. “Not you. You’ve got to get back to barracks.”

“No!” Joyce said, realising the time. She said hasty goodbyes and kissed John, before hurrying out of the kitchen. They could hear Joyce’s feet running up the stairs to go and get dressed.

As they waited for her to return, they sipped their tea and John outlined what he planned to do today. Martin was coming over at seven and they were going to start weeding the large field at the farm. The soil had been turned over and treated with manure before Vernon had left, but now nature had reclaimed it and it was a mass of horsetail and dandelions.

“You’re welcome to stay and help,” John suggested. “If Esther can spare you.”

“I think she’s got plans for me. As always.”

Iris tipped the dregs of her tea down the butler’s sink. She was about to leave when John spoke.

“Did you find what you wanted here? You know, to make you feel better.”

“Not really,” Iris admitted. “Don’t really know what I was looking for.”

John stared at her doleful expression. He could see she was scared and uncertain. “Come back any time, eh?” he said kindly as she nodded and left the room.

Dr Channing appeared to be picking at an invisible piece of lint on the knee of his trousers as he sat in the study at Hoxley Manor. Iris had glanced at his leg a number of times and now accepted that there was probably nothing there. It was just a nervous tic, like the way she’d clear her throat when it didn’t need clearing.

Iris felt more intimidated than usual by the suave and charismatic doctor, as they sat looking at each other in the eerie quietness of the book-lined room. The meeting had been arranged by Esther. Iris was supposed to be here to talk about how she was feeling, about the problems she was having. But she never felt at ease with Dr Channing at the best of times. There was something cold about him. As her mum said, some people had a cold centre where their heart should be. She had wanted to bring her tiny rag doll with her, just to keep it in her hands for comfort. But she decided that Channing would spot it and read some mammoth psychological problem or other into it. So it was best it stayed back in her bedroom. The predominantly circular study was adorned with bookshelves arching around its walls, each filled with hardback books and encyclopaedias. Iris was sitting on a leather-backed green chair, ten feet away from Channing, who was seated in a similar chair. The grandmother clock near the door ticked in soporific calmness as they sat looking at each other.

“In your own time.” Channing’s words sounded encouraging, but they were said with the strained smile of a man who considered he’d wasted quite enough of his valuable time on this pointless activity. Iris noticed the irritability bubbling under the surface and realised she ought to say something. But, by the same token, it made her want to clam up.

“Just a bit scared at night, you know.”

“You’re worried that Mr Storey will come back?”

“Yeah. I know it’s ridiculous.” Iris struggled to put it across. “But it seems real enough at night.”

“If he comes back, the police will charge him with the murder of his son.” Dr Channing picked at the invisible lint again. “And it’s highly likely that he’d be hanged by his neck for the crime. So it’s not a probability that he’ll come back just to scare you, Iris.”

Suddenly Iris felt annoyed. It wasn’t that she wanted to be at the centre of this situation, in fact she’d do anything to get away from it. She wasn’t manufacturing this fear to receive attention. It was a real and palpable dread.